“I shouldn’t say that—only——”
“What?”
“Only——” she indicated several streaks of black on his grey walking-suit. “Must one always pay such a price to inspiration?”
“Jove! That was stupid. I always do, though, Miss Darrow.” He examined the spots and touched them with the tips of his fingers. “It’s paint,” he finished, examining it with a placidity almost impersonal. “It doesn’t matter in the least.”
“And do you always smudge your face?” she asked sweetly. He looked at himself in the mirror. There was a broad streak of red across his forehead. He wiped it off with a handkerchief.
“Oh, please don’t laugh.”
He sank upon the edge of the throne, and then they both laughed joyously, naturally, like two children.
“I’m an awfully lucky fellow,” he said, at last. “I feel like a feudal baron with a captured princess. Here are you, that most inaccessible of persons, the Woman of Society, doomed every morning for two weeks to play Darby and Joan with a man you’ve known only three days. How on earth can a fellow survive seeing a girl he likes behind cups of tea! It’s rough, I think. Society seems to accomplish every purpose but its avowed one. Instead of which everybody plays puss-in-the-corner. A fellow might have a chance if the corners weren’t so far apart. And I, just back from abroad with all the skeins of old friendship at a loose end, walk into your circle and quietly appropriate you for a fortnight—while your other friends go a-begging.”
“They haven’t begged very hard,” she laughed. “If they had, perhaps they might be playing Darby and Joan, too. I’ve never tried it before. But I think it’s rather nice——” She broke off suddenly.