"Thanks!... And you, I take it, are la belle Débutante?"
"Yes!" Milly laughed. "How did you know?"
"Oh," he replied, and his tone said, "it's because you too are different from the rest here," which flattered Milly.
"Won't you come in and sit down?"
The young man emptied a chair by the simple process of tipping it and presented it to Milly with a gallant flourish. She sat on the edge and drew up her veil as far as the tip of her nose. The young man smiled. Milly smiled back. They understood each other at once, far better than either could ever understand the other members of the Star staff. Their clothes, their accents, their manners announced that they came from the same world,—that small "larger world," where they all use the same idiom.
"Been doing Mackinac and Ocara-se-er-oc?" the young man drawled with delightful irony. "Ye gods! What names!"
Both laughed with a pleasant sense of superiority over a primitive civilization, though Milly at least had hardly known any other.
"And they're just like their names," Milly asserted, "awful places!"
"I've not yet had the privilege of seeing our best people in their summer quarters," the young man continued, with his agreeable air of genial mockery.
"You won't see them in those places."