“It is always easy to recognize one’s host in a mixed gathering, provided he does not know you,” commented Wynne, as the door closed, “for he is the person whose face betrays the greatest perplexity. How do you do, Mr. Quiltan?”
Lane Quiltan shook hands doubtfully, but not without interest. Out of politeness he said:
“I seem to know your name.”
“That’s unlikely,” replied Wynne, “for I have been at some pains to keep it in the background. One of these days, however, you will know it very much better.”
“Did you come here to tell me so?”
“Not altogether, although in a sense it is mixed up with my visit. To be frank, I came in the hope of finding you alone. Still, I suppose later on you will be.” He smiled engagingly.
Quiltan scarcely knew whether to be annoyed or amused. In deference to his guests, he chose the latter alternative.
“You seem to be an unconventional man, Mr. Rendall,” he laughed.
“Come, I had not looked for a compliment so soon; but perhaps you use the term correctively?”
“It is just possible, isn’t it?”