“That’s why you like the Scandinavians? Because they stayed out?”
“Right. I forgive you though because you’re young and simple and your legs are rather jolly in those things.” She twisted her head to stare at his leggings and the black hair rose, settled back into its carved composure below the strong, shaded lamp. The clear red of her lips parted as she laughed, “Not a blush? Made the world safe for democracy and aren’t proud of it? How did your friends get through? That rather sweet lad who used to come to lunch when you were at school? Lacy—?”
“Lacy Martin. Lost a leg.”
She frowned. “Doesn’t matter so much for a chap like that with billions but—the artists. I must have St. Ledger do you. We’ll go there tomorrow. I had Cosmo—Rand have himself done.”
Gurdy made a shot and said, “Rand’s a much prettier subject than I’d be.”
“Don’t get coy, my lad! You’re rather imposing and you know it.—Like to meet Gilbert Chesterton? You used to read his junk. I can have you taken there. Never met him, myself.”
“No thanks.—What’s that bell?”
“Dress for dinner. You can’t. I must.—I say, you’re altogether different from what I thought you’d be.”
“What did you think?”
“I couldn’t possibly tell you but I’m damned glad you’re not. The butler can make cocktails. Dad taught him in nineteen seventeen.”