‘What is it, Uncle Howard?’
‘Merely a little farewell dinner. I thought we ought to put on a bright face our last night, you know.’
‘One would think you were going to be led to execution at dawn.’
‘We will hope it’s nothing worse than exile,’ said Sybert.
‘Who are your guests, and when were they invited?’
‘My guests are the people who dropped in late to tea; I did not think of it early enough to make the invitation very general. The list, I believe, includes the Melvilles, Signora Androit and the Contessa Torrenieri, Sidney Carthrope the sculptor, and a certain young Frenchman, a most alluring youth, who called with him, but whose name for the moment escapes me.’
‘Adolphe Benoit,’ said Sybert.
‘The Prix de Rome?’ asked Marcia. ‘Oh, I know him! I met him a few weeks ago at a tea; he’s very entertaining. I suppose,’ she added, considering the list, ‘that he will fall to my share?’
‘Unless you prefer Mr. Sybert.’
‘An embarrassing predicament, Miss Marcia,’ Sybert laughed. ‘If it will facilitate matters we can draw lots.’