“Don’t you think it very natural that I should wonder who any girl is who lunches with my son three times in one week?... And is remarkably pretty, besides?”
The girl in question looked remarkably pretty at that very moment, where she sat at her desk, the telephone transmitter tilted toward her, the receiver at her ear, and her dark eyes full of gayest malice.
“Miss Dumont, please?” came a distant and familiar voice over the wire. The girl laughed aloud; and he heard her.
“You said you were not going to call me up.”
“Is it you, Palla?”
“How subtle of you!”
He said anxiously. “Are you doing anything this evening––by any unhappy chance–––”
“I am.”
“Oh, hang it! What are you doing?”