“Garry dear, I’ve been so busy schooling horses and dancing that I’ve had no time for letter writing. So glad you’re coming at last. Bring along any good novels you see. My best to Jim. Your guests can be well mounted, if they ride. Father is wild because there are more foxes than usual, but he’s promised not to treat them as vermin, and the Northbrook pack is to hunt our territory this season, after all. Poor Dad! He is a brick, isn’t he?”
“Affectionately,
“Lee.”
Barres pocketed his sheaf of letters and began to stroll about the studio, whistling the air of some recent musical atrocity.
Westmore, in his own room, composing verses—a secret vice unsuspected by Barres—bade him “Shut up!”—the whistling no doubt ruining his metre.
But Barres, with politest intentions, forgot himself so many times that the other man locked up his “Lines to Thessalie when she was sewing on a button for me,” and came into the studio.
“Where is she?” he inquired naïvely.
“Where’s who?” demanded Barres, still sensitive over the increasing intimacy of this headlong young man and Thessalie Dunois.
“Thessa.”
“In there fussing with Dulcie’s togs. Go ahead in, if you care to.”
“Is your stuff packed up?”