Croyden nodded and went across the hall to the telephone.
Miss Carrington, herself, answered his call.—Yes, she intended to be home all evening. She would be delighted to see him and to hear a full account of himself.
He was rather surprised at his own alacrity, in finishing his cigar and changing his clothes—and he wondered whether it was the girl, or the companionship, or the opportunity to be free of himself? A little of all three, he concluded.... But, especially, the girl, as she came from the drawing-room to meet him.
“So you have really returned,” she said, as he bowed over her slender fingers. “We were beginning to fear you had deserted us.”
“You are quite too modest,” he replied. “You don’t appreciate your own attractions.”
The “you” was plainly singular, but she refused to see it.
“Our own attractions require us to be modest,” she returned; “with a—man of the world.”
“Don’t!” he laughed. “Whatever I may have been, I am, now, a man of Hampton.”
She shook her head. “You can never be a man of Hampton.”