“Well,” she said, coming up behind him, “how are you?”
Alan turned his head slowly, and then threw off his rugs and sprang to his feet.
“The sky is clear,” he said; “where did you drop from?” His eyes measured her. She was ravishing in a fur toque and coat which had yet to receive their baptism of import duty.
“Oh,” said Alix, “my presence is humdrum. Just the usual returning from six weeks abroad. But you! You come from the haunts of wild beasts, and from all accounts you have been one.”
“Been one! From all accounts!” exclaimed Alan, a puzzled frown on his face. “Just what do you mean?”
They started walking.
“I mean that even in Africa one can’t hide from Piccadilly. In Piccadilly you are already known not as Mr. Alan Wayne, a New York social satellite, but as a whirlwind in shirt-sleeves. Ten Per Cent. Wayne, in short.” She looked at him with teasing archness. She could see that he was worried.
“Satellite is rather rough,” remarked Alan. “I never was that.”
“All bachelors are satellites in the nature of things—satellites to other men’s wives.”
“Have you a vacancy?” said Alan.