"Hilda," I said, "there are so many things I want to know, and only you can tell me about Stamford—about last winter—is it true that Mrs. Fulton is going——?"
"Yes, she is."
We were silent for a moment. Then she spoke. "Do you still——?"
"No, I don't think so, Hilda."
"Then I'll come—if you want me to, and think I ought. But if any of your friends——?"
"Do I have to tell you that you are one of the smartest looking people I know, Hilda? They'll think you are the Marchioness of Amber——" I glanced at her red hair, which did have amber lights in it, "and they'll envy. So do come. Will you?"
I borrowed a fine new racing runabout, and at six o'clock called for her at the address she had given me. She had gotten herself up with the most discreet good taste, and looked perfectly charming. She must have read the approval in my glance, for the color flew to her cheeks, and she looked triumphantly pleased.
"Going to be warm enough?"
"Yes, thank you."
"It's mighty nice of you to come."