"Because she makes the step?" Pendleton laughed. "You rather like to dance, don't you, Burgoyne?"
"It isn't a question of like or dislike. It's a question of what the lady wants—and whom she wants. Devereux is a fool about her, and I think I'm getting dippy too. Nothing serious, Pendleton, nothing serious, I assure you; but she is a mighty attractive girl and we both know it. You understand."
"I understand!" Pendleton answered. "What did I tell you the first day you saw her—at the Club, wasn't it?"
"Yes—the same day that you met Stephanie Lorraine when she drove up alone—you remember?"
Pendleton nodded—finished knotting his tie, drew on his waist-coat and coat, picked up his gloves, and he and Burgoyne went down-stairs, just as the clock was striking eight.
Immediately dinner was announced, and they went in without partners, and found who they were when they got to the table.
Pendleton was not surprised to find he had Stephanie Lorraine on his right; in fact, he would have been a trifle disappointed had she not been there. It was becoming the rule among Stephanie's few (at present) friends always to include him in their invitations, and always to put them together when it could be done without making too much of a point of it. She was looking particularly fit this evening, in a dull green gown, with a collar of emeralds about her soft white throat and a copper-gold net binding her copper-red hair.
She met him with the familiar little nod that she reserved for him alone, and looked up at him with a bewitching glance as he placed her chair.
"I am surprised to see you!" she smiled.
"Here?" he asked.