Palla laughed: “You said I drank too much champagne, John Estridge! Do you remember?”
“You bet I do. You had a cunning little bunn, Palla–––”
“I did not! I merely asked you and Mr. Brisson what it felt like to be intoxicated.”
“You did your best to be a sport,” he insisted, “but you almost passed away over your first cigarette!”
“Darling!” cried Ilse, “don’t let them tease you!”
Palla, rather pink, laughingly denied any aspirations toward sportdom; and she presently ventured a glance at Shotwell, to see how he took all this.
But already Marya had engaged him in half smiling, low-voiced conversation; and Palla looked at her golden-green eyes and warm, rich colouring, cooled by a skin 111 of snow. Tiger-golden, the rousse ensemble; the supple movement of limb and body fascinated her; but most of all the lovely, slanting eyes with their glint of beryl amid melting gold.
Estridge spoke to Marya; as the girl turned slightly, Palla said to Shotwell:
“Do you find them interesting––my guests?”
He turned instantly to her, but it seemed to her as though there were a slight haze in his eyes––a fixedness––which cleared, however, as he spoke.