"Oh, yes, pretty good. Delancy Grandcourt was out after luncheon, and when Rosalie left he stuck to me and talked about you until I let my horse bolt, and it stirred up a few mounted policemen and riding-schools, I can tell you!"
"Oh, so you lunched with Mrs. Dysart?"
"Yes. Where is Kathleen?"
"Driving," said the girl briefly. "If you don't care for any tea, there is mineral water and a decanter over there."
He thanked her, rose and mixed himself what he wanted, and began to walk leisurely about, the ice tinkling in the glass which he held. At intervals he quenched his thirst, then resumed his aimless promenade, a slight smile on his face.
"Has anything particularly interesting happened to you, Duane?" she asked, and somehow thought of Rosalie Dysart.
"No."
"How are your pictures coming on?"
"The portrait?" he asked absently.
"Portrait? I thought all the very grand ladies you paint had left town. Whose portrait are you painting?"