"Miss Janney—she is adorable." She looked over the rim of her cup at him as she finished her tea. "My dear Cort," she laughed, as she handed it to him, "the best I can say for you is that you have the worst taste in the world. I'm really in love with her myself. I can't see what you could have been thinking of——"
"Any more than I can see what you were thinking of."
There was a refuge from the danger toward which she felt herself drifting, and she took it, addressing her nearest neighbor.
"Mrs. Cheyne, don't you think men have abominable taste?"
"Oh, yes, abominable," laughed the lady. "Ugh! I hate mustaches, too, don't you?"
Camilla turned a shade rosier, but her discomfiture was lost in the laughter of those who remembered that Cheyne had worn a beard.
"You know I didn't mean just that," explained Camilla. "I meant their appreciation of women—their sense of the esthetic——"
"Anesthetic, Mrs. Wray. That's the only word for a man's perceptions. A French frock, a smart hat, a little deft color, and the plainest of us is a match for the gayest Lothario. They're only bipeds, instincts on legs——"
"Oh, I say now, Rita," laughed Bent.
"We can't stand for that, Mrs. Cheyne," put in their host. "I suppose you'd think me ungallant if I asked you what kind of instincts women were."