"A rotten song, that, isn't it?" he growled. "Smallwood plays a decent game of tennis. I wish that he'd stick to it."
"He sings rather well. Ah! Mon Dieu!"
"What is it?" Godfrey was all solicitude.
"Nothing. Except that our friend Connie is going to sing, and I—I have heard her before."
Her whisper soothed the young man's ruffled feelings. He did what all the evening he had been intending not to do. This connection with the Hammond ménage had gone far enough. He said:
"Look here, do you ever care to ride, Miss Duquesne?"
"When I have a mount," she answered.
"When the birds go north again!" shrilled Connie.
"I wondered if perhaps, I've got rather a jolly little mare, a perfect lady's hack. My mother was going to ride her, but she hasn't been awfully fit, and hasn't been riding much. It would be a perfect charity if you would be good enough to exercise her. If you could come up one afternoon."
Clare smiled demurely. "Well, if Mrs. Hammond does not object, we might all come up one afternoon."