"Who are the others?" Neil asked, taking a chair beside her.
She waved a fan of black and yellow feathers from which, true daughter of Spain as she was, she would not part even in winter.
"Oh, all the people you have met here before," she said, smoothing her dainty gloves. "My father, Jennie Brawn, my uncle and aunt, and Geoffrey Heron."
As she pronounced the last name Ruth stole a laughing glance at her lover. And, as she had expected, a shadow came over his face, and his colour went and came like that of a startled girl.
"Oh, is he here?" was his comment. "He is a very good sort of fellow."
"Too good for your taste, Monsieur Othello," laughed Miss Cass, tapping his flushed cheek with her fan. "I see how it is. You think he is a rival."
"I don't think it, I know it. Ruth."
"Well," with a coquettish toss of her head, "perhaps he is. But you think, moreover, that I admire him. I do, as one might admire a picture. He is good-looking and very nice----"
"I can't contradict you," interrupted the young man.
"But," she resumed smoothly, "he is not clever, he is not musical, and he is not the most jealous man in the world."