Wray laughed. "I'm the original woolly Western lamb being led to the shearing, Mrs. Cheyne——"
"The golden fleece!" she put in. "I know. But I'm not going to allow it. You're not going to let them—are you, Jeff Wray?"
"I never knew a lamb that had any opinions on the matter," he said easily.
The General got to his feet testily.
"Rita, this won't do at all. We wanted to speak to Wray privately——"
"Oh! You needn't mind me. I'm positively bursting with other people's confidences. But I'm really the soul of discretion. Please let me stay." She went over to Curtis Janney and laid her hands on his shoulders appealingly. "I'll sell you Jack-in-the-Box if you will, Mr. Janney," she said. "You know you've wanted that horse all season."
Janney laughed. "That's a great temptation—but this isn't my affair," and he glanced at General Bent, who stood frowning at them from the window.
"Leave the room at once, Rita!" said the General sternly. "You're interfering here. Can't you see——?"
Mrs. Cheyne dropped her hands.
"Oh, if you take that tone, of course." She moved toward the door, turning with her hand on the knob—"I think you're horrid—both of you. I hope your lamb turns out to be a lion, and eats you up." And, with a laugh and a toss of her head, she went out, banging the door behind her.