"There he is over there," remarked Grismer, indicating a regulation Mephistopheles, wearing a blood-red jerkin laced with a wealth of superfluous points. "Wait; I'll borrow a lace of him."
The devil was polite and had no objection to being despoiled; and Grismer came back with a chamois thong and mended her sandal for her while she sat in their box and watched the tumult surging below.
He chatted gaily with her for a while, leaning there on the box's edge beside her, but Stephanie had become smilingly inattentive and preoccupied, and he watched her in silence, now, curiously, a little perplexed by her preoccupation. For it was most unusual for her to betray inattention when with him. It was not like her. He could not remember her ever being visibly uninterested in him—ever displaying preoccupation or indifference when in his company.
However, the excitement of seeing her brother again so unexpectedly accounted for it no doubt.
The excitement and pleasure of seeing her—brother! ... A slight consciousness of the fact that there was no actual kinship between this girl and Cleland passed through his mind without disturbing his tranquillity. He merely happened to think of it.... He happened to recollect it; that was all.
"Stephanie?"
"Yes."
"Shall we sit out this dance? Your sandal string will hold."
"I don't know," she said. "Who is that dancing with Helen? Over there to the left——"
"I see her. I don't know—oh, yes—it's Phil Grayson."