Rosamund came in breezily, sables powdered with tiny flecks of snow, cheeks like damask roses, eyes of turquoise.
"How d'ye do!" she nodded, greeting Boots askance as she closed with Nina. "I came, you see, but do you want to be jammed and mauled and trodden on at the Craigs'? No? That's perfect!—neither do I. Where is the adorable Eileen? Nobody sees her any more."
"She was at the Delmour-Carnes's yesterday."
"Was she? Curious I didn't see her. Tea? With gratitude, dear, if it's Scotch."
She sat erect, the furs sliding to the back of the chair, revealing the rather accented details of her perfectly turned figure; and rolling up her gloves she laid her pretty head on one side and considered Boots with very bright and malicious eyes.
"They say," she said, smiling, "that some very heavy play goes on in that cunning little new house of yours, Mr. Lansing."
"Really?" he asked blandly.
"Yes; and I'm wondering if it is true."
"I shouldn't think you'd care, Mrs. Fane, as long as it makes a good story."
Rosamund flushed. Then, always alive to humour, laughed frankly.