“It is good-looking,” David allowed. “It seems to be a kind of retrieving hat, that’s all. Keeps you in a rather constant state of looking after the game.”
“What about my hat, David?” Margaret inquired anxiously. “Do you like that?”
“I do,” David admitted. “I’m crazy about it. It’s a lovely cross between the style affected by the late Emperor Napoleon and my august grandmother, with some frills added.”
The chauffeur turned into a cross street and stopped abruptly before an imposing but apparently unguarded entrance.
“Why, I thought this was a studio building,” Gertrude said. “David, if you’re springing a tea party on us, and we in the wild ungovernable state we are at present, I’ll shoot the way my hat is pointing.”
“Straight through my left eye-glass,” David 170 finished. “You wait till you see the injustice you have done me.”
But Margaret, who often understood what was happening a few moments before the revelation of it, clutched at his elbow.
“Oh! David, David,” she whispered, “how wonderful!”
“Wait till you see,” David said, and herded them into the elevator.
Their destination was the top floor but one. David hurried them around the bend in the sleekly carpeted corridor and touched the bell on the right of the first door they came to. It opened almost instantly and David’s man, who was French, stood bowing and smiling on the threshold.