"How awfully delightful!" she said, "and I think you're ever so clever. But—but I think you'll have to pardon me."
I rose, as she gained her feet and smiled at me again. Then she rushed off to another corner of the room and placed her hand on the coatsleeve of a six-footer who looked at her, joyfully. Her little turned-up face, in a fraction of a second, must have spoken several volumes. Then, slowly and very casually, they drifted off towards the big conservatory to the left.
Twenty minutes later, floating with the crowd, I chanced to be behind them. It is possible that they had found the retreat too populous.
"I am sure that you must have flirted disgracefully before I came," the man accused her, tenderly.
"Not a bit! I just sat down with the dearest old fogy who is supposed to write novels, so that you shouldn't be jealous, if you saw me," she replied, contentedly.
I moved away, rather swiftly. I should evidently have been delighted at the opportunity of rendering such signal service to so charming a little person. I had served as an ægid for her, as a buckler to protect her innocence and display it to the world in general and to six feet of stalwart manhood in particular. Yet, I confess that this little bud had driven a tiny thorn in me.
"Well," I reflected, "it is perhaps good to be an old fogy with scanty hair and the beginning of crow's feet. At any rate it helps make Frieda fond of me and has given me the trustful friendship of Frances. Baby Paul, I think, also appreciates his venerable friend."
Just then, Gordon came to me.
"By Jove, Dave! You're rather a fine figure of a man, when you're properly groomed," he told me.
"That's nonsense," I told him, severely. "I have just had a wireless informing me that I am a back number. Why are you no longer receiving at the side of your intended bride? She looks exceedingly handsome and graceful."