"Something in that, no doubt. Still"—Lontaine made as if to go to his own room, but lingered—"it's hardly the thing to be so much behind time. See here, old girl: you're all dressed.... I say! but you've laid it on a bit thick tonight, haven't you?"
"Don't you like the way I look, Harry?"
"Never more ravishing in all your life——"
"That's good."
"Good? Afraid I don't follow. What's got into you tonight, Fanny? You've rigged yourself out for the opera instead of a simple little dinner...."
"I wanted something to remember myself by," Fanny mysteriously informed the mirror to which her attention continued constant.
"What do you mean by that?" Lontaine paused for answer, but Fanny was dumb. He essayed another short, confused laugh. "You know, Fan, sometimes you think of the damnedest things to say."
"Yes: don't I?"
He recognized one of her mulishly enigmatic moods.
"Mean to say," he harked back—"since you're quite ready—what's the matter with your cutting along and explaining I'll be delayed a bit? Tell them not to wait dinner for me...."