John showed him through the house later, and Rodrigo was very sincere in his praise of their dwelling and its broad, attractive surroundings. The close-cropped lawn sloped down gradually to a small lake, surrounded by willow trees, a body of fresh water that eventually found its way into the neighboring sound. John explained that there was a concrete dam below, with a private bathing beach of white sand and crystal-clear water. Millbank was a new development, very much restricted and exclusive, with a fine nine-hole golf course just across the lake. When Rodrigo cast pleased eyes upon the links, John recalled that Warren Pritchard, on learning of Rodrigo's coming, had immediately spoken for the guest's company on Sunday morning at the Greenwich Country Club.
"I believe Ben Bryon and Lon Sisson are anxious for a revenge match on account of the beating you and Warren gave them the last time," John explained, indicating by his tone of voice that he didn't consider the engagement so pressing as Warren evidently did, and that he would have preferred to retain Rodrigo's company himself.
"That will be fine," Rodrigo enthused. "That is, if you haven't other plans for me, John?" John shook his head in the negative.
He motored to Stamford that evening with his host and hostess and attended the first night of a polite comedy, destined for its New York premiere the following week. The play was not particularly interesting, and Rodrigo paid more attention to the audience than to the stage. It was a mixed crowd of typical small-towners, well dressed and highly sun-tanned people from adjacent Long Island Sound resorts, and professionals from Broadway who were either interested in the production or the players. He recognized the producer of the piece, a jolly, corpulent individual whom he had met at the Coffee House Club. They ran into each other in the outside lobby between the first and second act, and the theatrical admitted blithely that he had a "flop" and was debating whether to dismiss the company at once and forfeit his deposit on the lease of the Broadway theatre or chance a performance in New York.
To Rodrigo, walking down the aisle as the orchestra was playing the unmelodious prelude to the second act, came the realization anew that Elise was quite the most striking-looking woman he had ever known. Her creamy white shoulders billowing up from her black evening dress, her raven hair sleeked tightly against her skull, her dark eyes either feeling or feigning vivacious interest as she inclined her head to listen to John's animated conversation, she was easily the most beautiful person in front or behind the footlights. He sensed the strong magnetism of her presence as he took the seat on the other side of her, and she said smilingly to him, "I was telling John how bad this play is, but he seems only to have noticed that the settings are in atrocious taste."
"He's right," Rodrigo acknowledged, and, thinking this was rather curt, added, "And so are you."
"You find the audience more interesting?" she asked shrewdly.
"Yes, part of it," he said quickly, without thinking, and then cursed himself for betraying that she exerted some of her old spell over him. A sudden enigmatic smile crinkled her eyes and mouth as she gazed full at him an instant, then turned abruptly to John.
He played golf with John's brother-in-law and his two companions the next morning and had the satisfaction of being largely responsible for another victory for Pritchard and himself. The latter was as tickled as if he had captured a championship. "Come again next week-end, Rodrigo, and we'll give these birds a real ride," he proclaimed loudly for the defeated ones' benefit. But Rodrigo would not promise.
In the afternoon he pleaded pressure of work and an unbreakable dinner engagement as an excuse for leaving. John protested loudly, but his guest was adamant. At about five o'clock, they drove him to the station. Elise took the seat beside him in the tonneau and, just before they reached the station, she asked, "When are we to see you again? I was in town two or three times last week. Twice I telephoned John for lunch, and he was too busy or out or something. The next time, I warn you, I am going to invite you to give me luncheon, Rodrigo, and you mustn't refuse me." And as if to assure him that her intentions were innocent, she repeated the same thing to John in a louder voice. He laughed back and said, "Of course. I want you two to be great friends."