"Do you know there is something almost divine in your face."
"What did you say?" asked Geraldine, looking up from her ice in its nest of spun sugar.
"You so strenuously reject the truthful compliments I pay you, that perhaps I'd better not repeat this one."
"Was it really more absurd flattery?"
"No, never mind...." He leaned back in his chair, absently turning the curious, heavily chiselled ring on his little finger, but every few moments his expressive eyes reverted to her. She was eating her ice with all the frank enjoyment of a schoolgirl.
"Do you know, Miss Seagrave, that you and I are really equipped for better things than talking nonsense."
"I know that I am," she observed.... "Isn't this spun sugar delicious!"
"Yes; and so are you."
But she pretended not to hear.
He laughed, then fell silent; his dreamy gaze shifted from vacancy to her—and, casually, across the room, where it settled lightly as a butterfly on his wife, and there it poised for a moment's inexpressive examination. Scott Seagrave was talking to Rosalie; she did not notice her husband.