“We met at the Reservoir,” declared Sue frankly, laying aside her hat and jacket, and patting her fair hair neatly in place before the mirror over the mantel.
“By chance, I assure you, Mrs. Ford,” explained Lamont, his Parisian code of delicacy in such matters tactfully coming to the rescue.
“Well, I’m glad you did,” beamed the mother. “Don’t you think she looks splendidly, Mr. Lamont?”
She slipped an arm lovingly about her daughter’s neck.
“I’ve already complimented Miss Preston upon that,” he returned graciously.
“Now, Mr. Lamont, you know how I hate compliments,” protested Sue.
“But when they’re true,” he laughed, seating himself upon the new gilt chair Mrs. Ford had offered him.
“Mr. Lamont, I tell her she is much too modest, with all her talents,” the mother declared, framing the rosy cheeks in her hands, much to Sue’s embarrassment.
“After all, Mrs. Ford,” returned Lamont, “is there anything more charming than modesty in a young girl? Isn’t that a talent in itself? Most girls are so ridiculously conceited nowadays—often over nothing, I assure you.” He sat gracefully at his ease, his ringed hands still gloved, still holding his stick and hat, much to the mother’s surprise and anxiety—another Parisian method—a formality he carefully observed in calling upon young girls in the presence of their mothers. Had she been his fiancée he would have done the same in France. Had she been alone, married or widowed, with the door liable to open at any instant by husband or friend, at least they would have found his presence correct and above suspicion, since it can be logically argued by the French that a gentleman whose hands are enslaved with his gloves, hat, and stick cannot possibly make love any more than the ostrich can pursue his mate with his head in the sand.
Mrs. Ford’s anxiety was noticeable.