"About that."
He turned to Athalie; but her silent, smiling gaze confused him so that he forgot what he had meant to say, and stood without a word amid the chatter that rose and ebbed about him.
Anne Randolph and Arthur Ensart had joined hands, their restless feet sketching the first steps of
the Miraflores; and presently somebody cranked the machine.
"Come on!" said Peggy imperiously to Dane; "you've been too long in the jungle dancing with Indian maidens!"
Other people dropped in—Adele Millis, young Grismer, John Lyndhurst, Jeanne Delauny.
When Clive saw Rosalie Faithorn saunter in with James Allys he stared, but that young seceder from his own set greeted him without embarrassment and lighted a cigarette.
"Where's Winifred?" she asked nonchalantly. "Still on the outs? Yes? Why not shuffle and draw again? Winifred was always a pig."
Clive flushed at the girl's frankness although he could have expected nothing less from her.
Rosalie continued to smoke and to inspect him critically: "You're a bit seedy and a bit weedy, Clive, but you'll come around with feeding. You're really all right. I'd have you myself if I was marrying young men these days."