“Hello! Bud, the old reliable! Mr. Storrs! Yes; I had been hoping for this!”
She gave a hand to each and looked up at Bruce, who towered above her, and nodded as though approving of him.
“This is delightful! A new man! Marvelous!”
As she explained that she had been away since June and was only just home, Bruce became aware that Henderson had passed on and was standing by a tea table indulging in his usual style of raillery with a young woman whose voice even before he looked at her identified her as Constance Mills.
“You know Mrs. Mills? Of course! If you’d only arrived this morning you’d know Connie. Not to know Connie is indeed to be unknown.”
Constance extended her hand from the divan on which she was seated behind the tea table—thrust it out lazily with a minimum of effort.
“Oh—the difficult Mr. Storrs! I’m terribly mortified to be meeting you in a friend’s house and not in my own!”
“To meet you anywhere——” began Bruce, but she interrupted him, holding him with her eyes.
“——would be a pleasure! Of course! I know the formula, but I’m not a debutante. You didn’t like me that night we met at Dale Freeman’s, and I was foolish enough to think I’d made an impression!”
“Let’s tell him the truth,” said Henderson, helping himself to a slice of cinnamon toast. “Bruce, I bet a hundred cigarettes with Connie I could deliver you here and I win!”