"You're an arrant young baggage," Lanyard considered aloud.
"I know—but you're an old hand."
"Then cultivate a bit of reverence for my grey hairs, remember it's not seemly to make mock of your elders."
"Come and sit down, then, beside me." With a chuckle of delight Folly flitted back into the shadows from which she had come, plumped down upon a settee, and patted its vacant cushions with a peremptory hand as Lanyard more deliberately followed. "Do you always insist on having a plot to explain why people request the honour of your presence at their dinners?"
"I have a humble heart," Lanyard protested, sitting; "I am too much mystified to understand why it's termed an honour . . ."
"You're a great bluff—I've told you before. You know very well, most of the people one meets are incurably dull, whereas nothing can cure you of being a most interesting person. That's one reason at least why you're wanted."
"But you are dodging my question. Few people think it an honour to entertain the Lone Wolf—even if they didn't entertain him unawares."
"I don't call that humour," Folly observed, critical. "You can't amuse me by making believe you think I take any stock in all the rotten things people say about you."
"Oh!" Lanyard blankly cried—"you really don't?"
"I should say not—know you better."