“I think,” she said to her reflected figure in the glass, “I think that you are either mentally ill or inherently a kind of devil. And I don't much care which.”
And she turned leisurely, her slim hands balanced lightly on her narrow hips, and strolled into the second dressing-room, where Mrs. Vendenning sat sullenly indulging in that particular species of solitaire known as “The Idiot's Delight.”
“Well?” inquired Mrs. Vendenning, looking up at the tall, pale girl she was chaperoning so carefully during their sojourn in town.
“Oh, you know the rhyme to that,” yawned Agatha; “let's ring up somebody. I'm bored stiff.”
“What did Howard Quarrier want?”
“He knows, I think, but he hasn't yet informed me.”
“I'll tell you one thing, Agatha,” said Mrs. Vendenning, gathering up the packs for a new shuffle: “Grace Ferrall doesn't fancy Howard's attention to you and she's beginning to say so. When you go back to Shotover you'd better let him alone.”
“I'm not going back to Shotover,” said Agatha.
“What?”
“No; I don't think so. However, I'll let you know to-morrow. It all depends—but I don't expect to.” She turned as her maid tapped on the door. “Oh, Captain Voucher. Are you at home to him?” flipping the pasteboard onto the table among the scattered cards.