"Hayward, do you love me?"
"Alice!" And the depth and fervor of his love will be appreciated when it is recorded that he, Hayward Preston, the most conventional of men, deliberately tilted her rose-lined parasol and in the face of the world and before the very eyes of an advancing couple, kissed her.
CHAPTER XVIII
PLAYING THE GAME
It was only a day or two after her arrival in New York that Fuschia Fleming, who had been rehearsing the greater part of the night, opened her sleepy eyes in the hotel chamber to find her maid bending above her with a visiting card in one hand and a perplexed expression upon her face.
"I hated to waken you, Miss Fuschia," she said, "but when I saw the name—"
"What is the name?" Fuschia's voice was drowsily indifferent.
"Mrs. Cresswell Hepworth."