He stopped rather near me.
"If it's Mrs. Warrington all the fuss is about, it's imbecile," he said. "In the first place, there never was anything to it. In the second place, it's all over anyhow."
"I don't know what the fuss is about."
"You know the whole thing. Don't pretend you don't. You've got the face of a little saint, with all that fluffy hair, but your eyes don't belong to the rest, young lady. Are you going to dance with me to-night?"
"I'm afraid not."
"Well, you'll give me a little time, won't you? I suppose we can sit in a closet and talk, or hide on a veranda."
"It's—it's rather sneaking, isn't it?"
"That doesn't hurt it any for me."
So I promised, and, the car being announced, he put my wrap round my shoulders.
"Stunning hair you've got," he said from behind me. "Thank heaven for hair that isn't marceled and glued up in a net!"