Claudia was spending the week-end out of town at Holme Court, Wargrave, where one of her aunts, Mrs. Armesby Croft, always spent a good part of the summer. Gilbert had also been invited and her brother Jack, but Jack had refused to go.
She was coming down the stairs on the Friday morning and heard a familiar whistling. Jack’s door was open, and the musical-comedy tune—rather flat—proceeded from his room.
“Jack, I do wish you wouldn’t whistle so flat. Can’t you get your whistle manicured, or something?”
“Hallo! Claud, that you? Come in, I’m nearly all there.”
The late hours he habitually kept had not yet left any mark on Jack Iverson. This morning he looked wonderfully young and fresh, although he had not tumbled into bed until past three. Youth has a magnificent elasticity, and he looked like a modern god that has tubbed and shaved and is ready for a good breakfast.
“Why aren’t you coming down to Wargrave?” inquired Claudia, sauntering into his apartment. “It’s just the week-end for the river.”
“Maybe I am going on the river,” said Jack, with a knowing air, settling his tie in the mirror. “I’ve had on seven ties this morning. How’s this one?”
“Looks all right. I don’t notice anything wrong, so I suppose it’s all right. That’s the test of men’s dressing, isn’t it? Why not Wargrave?”
“Because, though Aunt Margaret is a clinking good sort and keeps a jolly good table, she is not a ravishing companion. You’re only my sister, and—’nuff said.”