"I don't know where Jack went," said Dorothy. "He heard one of the keepers complain of the hawks, so, I suppose, he took a gun. I wonder why that strange Lorraine de Nesville doesn't come to call. I am simply dying to see her."
"I saw her once," observed Sir Thorald.
"You generally do," added his wife.
"What?"
"See what others don't."
Sir Thorald, a trifle disconcerted, applied himself to caviare and, later, to a bottle of Moselle.
"She's a beauty, they say—" began Ricky, and might have continued had he not caught the danger-signal in Molly Hesketh's black eyes.
"Lorraine de Nesville," said Lady Hesketh, "is only a child of seventeen. Her father makes balloons."
"Not the little, red, squeaky kind," added Sir Thorald; "Molly, he is an amateur aeronaut."
"He'd much better take care of Lorraine. The poor child runs wild all over the country. They say she rides like a witch on a broom—"