Croyden held up his hands.
“I’m fussed!” he confessed. “I have nothing to plead. A man who mixes a high ball with a sour ball is either rattled or drunk, I am not the latter, therefore——”
“You mean that my coming has rattled you?” Elaine inquired.
“Yes—I’m rattled for very joy.”
She put her hands before her face.
“Spare my blushes, Geoffrey!”
“You could spare a few—and not miss them!” he laughed.
“Davila, am I?” she demanded.
“Are you what?”
“Blushing?”