"Far be it from me!" Pendleton laughed. "Who are here—do you know?"
"Dorothy Tazewell, Helen Burleston and Marcia Emerson, the men are Steuart Cameron and Warwick Devereux. We all came down on the same train. Stephanie Lorraine, I understand, came yesterday."
"Thank heaven, it is a congenial crowd! How is Miss Emerson—as fascinatingly pretty as ever?"
"More so!—More so!" exclaimed Burgoyne. "She is pushing Stephanie hard for first place," with a bland smile—which Pendleton saw but did not remark.
That he had admired Stephanie Mourraille was no secret, Pendleton knew; and that the admiration had not decreased since she had become Stephanie Lorraine, Society could very readily infer. For his part, he did not care what they inferred; and when he had intimated to Stephanie that he might be coming around her too much, she had put her hand on his shoulder—he could feel it there now—and had asked him, if he objected? Her inference was too plain to miss and he said no more—at the time—though he felt a bit culpable for not doing it.
"How are you and Devereux hitting it?" he asked, to shift the talk.
"Not in time!" smiled Burgoyne,—"not at all in time. It's like a two-step and a schottische."
"Who's doing the schottische?"
"Both—at different periods. Miss Emerson is the only one who is always in step."