Launa had just come in. She had lunched at the Herberts’. Mr. Wainbridge as usual was with her.
“You will never guess where I have been,” said Mr. George, with complacency, accepting a third cup of tea. Launa’s tea was always good; at Sylvia’s there was no cream. “I suppose,” he reflected, “there are lives without cream.”
“Tell me where you have been.”
“Interviewing Miss Cooper for the Signal, and here is her photograph.”
“Not really,” said Launa, with interest. “How naughty of you when I refused to introduce you to her, for I do not approve of you.”
“Now, Miss Launa, you are real mean, as you Yankees say.”
“I am a Canadian.”
“I know it. Haven’t I kept your secret? Did I ever tell Mr. Wainbridge how you fell violently in love with me and told me so, and how you would hold my hand? And how I did stroke yours? I was obliged to that night of the Fulton’s ball. The night you cried—you had just been dancing with Mr. Wainbridge—you said you were tired—you said—”
“It is nothing new for Miss Archer to be tired,” interrupted Mr. Wainbridge. “Did she see a ghost? She saw one, I remember, on a Sunday afternoon.”
“And you are base,” said Launa. “I will not invite you to any of my parties to meet Sylvia. You have thus betrayed my tenderest feelings and my tears. For what paper was your interview?”