Polly Wickes' small foot beat the floor in a sharp little tattoo.
Locke straightened up with a start. In his fit of abstraction he had been gazing at the girl with abominable rudeness.
"I forgot to say," said Polly Wickes severely, "that besides saying you were not a ladies' man, guardy said something else about you."
"No! Surely not!" Locke forced a mock dismay into his voice. "What was it?"
Polly Wickes took a critical survey of the toe of her spotless white shoe.
"He said he didn't know whether I would like you or not."
Locke took a step forward from the fireplace.
"And do you?" he demanded.
"I do not," she said promptly; "at least not when I am utterly ignored for a whole five minutes, except to be stared at as though I were a specimen under a microscope."
"I'm awfully sorry," said Locke contritely; "really I am. I was thinking of what we had been saying about Mr. Marlin, and—"