"Would be my own," he interrupted quickly, his face flushing. "I wouldn't marry any other kind."
"That's why you haven't married, Cortland dear," said Rita acidulously.
Camilla listened with every outward mark of composure—her gaze in the fire—conscious of the growing animosity in Mrs. Cheyne. They had met only twice since Jeff's departure, and on those occasions each had outdone the other in social amenities, each aware of the other's hypocrisy. In their polite interchange of compliments Wray's name had by mutual consent been avoided, and neither of them could be said to have the slightest tactical advantage. But Camilla felt rather than knew that an understanding of some sort existed between Mrs. Cheyne and Jeff—a more complete understanding than Camilla and her husband had ever had. She could not understand it, for two persons more dissimilar had never been created. Mrs. Cheyne was the last expression of a decadent dynasty—Jeff, the dawning hope of a new one. She had taken him up as the season's novelty, a masculine curiosity which she had added to her cabinet of eligible amusements. Camilla's intuition had long since told her of Jeff's danger, and it had been in her heart the night they separated to warn him against his dainty enemy. Even now it might not have been too late—if he would have listened to her, if he would believe that her motive was a part of their ancient friendship, if he would meet her in a spirit of compromise, if he were not already too deeply enmeshed in Rita Cheyne's silken net. There were too many "ifs," and the last one seemed to suggest that any further effort in the way of a reconciliation would be both futile and demeaning.
Camilla was now aware that Mrs. Cheyne was going out of her way to make her relations with Cort conspicuous—permissible humor, had the two women been friendly. Under present conditions it was merely impertinence.
"Mrs. Cheyne means," said Camilla distinctly, "that the ideal husbands are the ones one can't get." And then, pointedly, "Don't you, Mrs. Cheyne?"
Rita glanced at Camilla swiftly and smiled her acknowledgment of the thrust.
"They wouldn't be ideal," she laughed, "if we ever got them, Mrs. Wray."
"Touchée," whispered Billy Haviland to Larry Berkely, delightedly.
Outside there was a merry jingle of sleighbells, and Mrs. Haviland rose. "Come, children," she said, "that's for us. I wish we had more room at The Cove. You'll come, though, Cort, won't you? We need another man."
"Do you mind if I stay out, Rita?" Cortland appealed.