"No, thanks," taking from his pocket a silver case of curious design, "but, if no one objects, I will light a cigarette!"
"I can't help it," cried Nathalie, laughing until the tears were in her eyes, "did you hear the way he said that word 'cigarette,'—with such a lingering over each syllable? I am sure you are a Spaniard, Mr. Farr, in spite of New Jersey."
"I knew it," Nan put in, "the moment you spoke."
"Ah," exclaimed Nathalie, drawing back in mock affright, "you are an exile."
"How interesting," spoke Nan. "Do tell us all about it."
"About what?" queried Farr coolly, and Nan subsided, feeling suddenly very much embarrassed.
Eleanor Hill caught an expression half impatient in Farr's eyes, and turned warningly to Nathalie.
"You will be sorry."
"When I'm sober," interrupted the young girl merrily.
"What a rowdy you are, Nat; Helen is looking at you most disapprovingly."