Genevieve placed a trembling hand on the cover of her samovar, and called to him gayly: "Hurry here at once and have a good hot cup of tea. You must be frozen."
Blake came to them across the waxed floor with an ease and assurance of step in part due to his visit to Ruthby Castle and in part to his walk over the sleet-coated pavements.
"No tea for me, Miss Jenny," he replied with cheerful heartiness.
"Thanks, just the same. But I'm warm as toast—look it, too, eh?"
"Then take it to cool you off," suggested Lord James. "That's the Russian plan. When you're cold, hot tea to warm you; when you're hot, hot tea to cool you."
"Not when water tastes good to me," replied Blake with a significance that did not escape his friend. "Well, Jimmy, so you beat me to it."
"Waited till after three," said Lord James.
"Thought you'd hang back to give me the start? Went you one better, eh?" replied Blake. He stared fixedly into the handsome high-bred face of his friend and then at Genevieve's down-bent head. "Well? What's the good word? Is it—congratulations?"
"Not this time, old man," answered the Englishman lightly. He rose.
"Take my seat. Must be going."
Blake's eyes glowed. "You're the gamest ever, Jimmy boy."
"Don't crow till you're out of the woods," laughed his friend. "Can't wish you success, y'know. But it's to continue the same between us as it has been, if you're willing."