"Think I'm blind, Stockton? Good evening, Mrs. Runway. How do, Mrs. Clover."
"I'm surprised you weren't asked, Buzzy," said Mrs. Runway, a blondish lady with black eyes and rather darkish skin. "You were such pals."
"Where's your father, Buzzy?" shouted some one.
"He was announced half an hour ago," said another. They all roared. Bosworth flushed painfully. There was a strange, new resentment in his heart.
"He's changing," he announced coldly, and left them to wonder what he meant by the remark.
Mr. Stockton volunteered: "Changing what? His spots or his mind?"
But Bosworth had turned toward the young lady who had effaced herself. Somehow he rather rejoiced in the fact that she had forsaken this group for another and less objectionable one. Mrs. Runway intercepted him.
"They do say, Buzzy, that you were in love with her," she said. "Are you dreadfully cut up about it?"
He stared past her. "Not at all," he announced. "Far from it. Nothing would have afforded me greater pleasure than the privilege of giving the bride away."
"Dear me," she said, as he smiled and walked on. Struck by a sudden impulse he turned to her.