“Yes, Nellie,” said Bruce with affected shyness. He regarded them amiably as they peppered him with a brisk fire of questions as to where he had been and why he made himself so inaccessible.
Mrs. Burton he knew but slightly. She was tall, an extreme blonde and of about Constance’s age. Like Constance, she was not of the older order of the local nobility. Her father had been a manufacturer of horsedrawn vehicles, and when the arrival of the gasoline age destroyed his business he passed through bankruptcy into commercial oblivion. However, the law of compensations operated benevolently in Nellie’s favor. She married Dick Burton, thereby acquiring both social standing and a sound financial rating. She was less intelligent than Constance, but more daring in her social adventures outside the old conservative stockade.
“George brought his own liquor,” said Constance. “We have him to thank for this soothing mixture. Shep’s terribly law-abiding; he won’t have the stuff on the place. Bruce, you’re not going to boast of other engagements; you’ll dine right here!”
“That’s all settled!” remarked Whitford cheerfully.
“If Bruce goes he takes me with him!” declared Mrs. Burton. “I’m not going to be left here to watch you two spoon. I’m some little spooner myself!”
“You couldn’t drive me from this house,” protested Bruce.
“There spoke a real man!” cried Constance, and she rang for the maid to order the table set for four.
Mrs. Burton, whom Bruce had met only once before, became confidential when Constance and Whitford went to the piano in the reception parlor, where Whitford began improvising an air to some verses he had written.
“Constance is always so lucky! All the men fall in love with her. George has a terrible case—writes poems to Connie’s eyes and everything!”
“Every woman should have her own poet,” said Bruce. “I couldn’t make a rhyme to save my life!”