"They tip up a little—at the corners, don't they?" he inquired anxiously. "Does it hurt?"
"Tip up? What tips up?" she demanded.
"Your eyes."
She swung around toward him, confused and exasperated; but no seriousness was proof against the delighted malice in Dysart's face; and she laughed a little, and laughed again when he did. And she thought that he was, perhaps, the handsomest man she had ever seen. All débutantes did.
Young Grandcourt turned from the pretty, over-painted woman who, until that moment, had apparently held him interested when his food failed to monopolise his attention, and glanced heavily around at Geraldine.
All he saw was the back of her head and shoulders. Evidently she was not missing him. Evidently, too, she was having a very good time with Dysart.
"What are you laughing about?" he asked wistfully, leaning forward to see her face.
Geraldine glanced back across her shoulder.
"Mr. Dysart is trying to be impertinent," she replied carelessly; and returned again to the impertinent one, quite ready for more torment now that she began to understand how agreeable it was.
But Dysart's expression had changed; there was something vaguely caressing in voice and manner as he murmured: