"I—ah—how about a cocktail?" Quard ventured, relief manifest in his smoothened brow.
"I thought you—"
"Oh, for you, I mean. Mine's ice'-tea."
"I think," said Joan easily, "I would like a Bronx."
And then, while Quard was distracted by the importance of his order, she removed her gloves and, with her hands in her lap hidden beneath the table, slipped off the ring and put it away in her wrist-bag: looking about the room the while with a boldness which she could by no means have mustered a month earlier, in such surroundings.
Distrustful of her cocktail, when served, for all her impudence in naming it, she merely sipped a little and let it stand.
The mystery of the change in her worked a trace of exasperation into Quard's humour. He eyed her narrowly, with misgivings.
"I guess you ain't lost much sleep since we blew up," he hazarded abruptly.
"Whatever do you mean?" drawled Joan.
"You look and act's if you'd come into money since I saw you last."