"You mean, what is her attitude toward Devereux?"
"No—how is she herself?"
"Pretty good sort," said Pendleton. "I don't know her well at all; I see her at the dances—at dinner—at cards—across the tennis net—on the golf course—the way one meets, you know—and she impresses me always as distinctively likable. A square girl, I should call her."
"That is high praise from you, old man," Burgoyne remarked. "I shouldn't want higher, if I were a woman."
"Oh, piffle!" Pendleton scoffed.
"It isn't piffle, nor nonsense, nor anything of the sort," returned the other. "I knew the time when your ipse dixit went far to make or break a debutante."
"Forget it, Sheldon! Don't cast up my past sins—I'm trying to bury them."
"Are you succeeding?"
"I hope so! At least I've deluded myself with the idea until some reminding friend comes along and digs up a bunch of them and shakes the bones." He touched a bell. "Take Mr. Burgoyne's order," he said to the boy. "I'm going to drink a silver fizz—have one."
"Not on your life!" exclaimed Burgoyne. "I'm not fond of soap suds as a beverage. I prefer them with my bath."