Flashing to his face eyes of astonishment, Joan half started from her chair, automatically thrust out a hand of welcome, gasped: "Mr. Marbridge!"
Quard looked up with a scowl. Marbridge ignored him, having in a glance measured the man and relegated him to a negligible status. He had Joan's hand and the knowledge, easily to be inferred from her alarm and hesitation, that she remembered and understood the scene of last Sunday, and was at once flattered and frightened by that memory. His handsome eyes ogled her effectively.
"Please don't rise. I just caught sight of you and couldn't resist stopping to speak. How are you?"
"I"—Joan stammered—"I'm very well, thanks."
"As if one look at you wouldn't have told me you were as healthy as happy—more charming than both! You are—eh—not lonesome?"
His intimate smile, the meaning flicker of his eyes toward Quard, exposed the innuendo.
"Oh, no, I—"
"Venetia was saying only yesterday we ought to look you up. She wants to call on you. Where do you put up in town?"
Almost unwillingly the girl gave her address—knowing in her heart that the truth was not in this man.
"And, I presume, you're ordinarily at home round four in the afternoon?" She nodded instinctively. "I'll not forget to tell Venetia. Two-eighty-nine west Forty-fifth, eh? Right-O! I must trot along. So glad to have run across you. Good afternoon...."