"One can't do anything too much, you know, Tom. I hate moderation in anything—I hate anything lukewarm;" she was answering at random. He put his hand on hers. They burned with fever.
"You are not well at all," he said, and then added, looking about them anxiously: "I wonder where Sinclair is?"
The girl was possessed with a sudden anger.
"Don't ask me, Tom. I would be the last person to know of his whereabouts." The words were very bitter.
"You know, Cleo," he answered her, soothingly, "Sinclair never did care for this kind of thing. He is doubtless in the grounds somewhere. Wait—I'll hunt him up." He rose from his seat, but the girl stayed him peremptorily.
"Not for my sake, Tom. Oh, I assure you, I shall not wither without him," she said.
Tom sat down beside her again.
"Look here, little sis, don't get cynical—nor—nor untruthful. I know very well you want to see Sinclair. I have not seen you together all evening, and I believe it's partially that which makes you so restless. No use trying to fool old Tom about anything."
Cleo did not argue the point any longer, and Tom passed on to the piazza of the hotel.
Quite a lot of the guests were congregated there, some of them telling tales, others listening to the music. Tom made his way to where he saw Mrs. Davis standing. She was with Fanny Morton, and they seemed to be waiting for some one.