He admired Dorothy McClain’s appearance, her tall, upright figure, with the broad shoulders and slender hips, the clear, fresh skin and straightforward blue eyes. An instant he considered that so a Greek girl might have appeared in the days of the great Greek sculptors. Then inwardly he denied his own thought. Dorothy McClain was a typical American girl.
Turning toward Lance, he put out his hand for a second time.
“I did not recognize you at first. I believe we have seen each other before, here in this very house. Do you live here?”
Lance shook his head.
“No, I come here now and then. I have a friend in one of the other studios who allows me the use of his piano.”
“Do you mean the rich fellow named Moore, who won’t have anything to do with the rest of us in this building?”
Lance stiffened.
“I know nothing of Mr. Moore’s private affairs.”
A little later, when they had said farewell and gone, Dorothy and Tory both appreciated that they had learned the name of Lance’s friend which he had declined to tell them without permission. It was of no importance. Moore was not an uncommon name. As a matter of fact, it was possibly bestowed upon Kara because it was so ordinary a name, when she had been deserted as a baby in the evergreen cabin.