“Come on, Nora,” Alice said rising. “Come, Monty. Ethel, you’ll have to amuse yourself, as Michael isn’t to be depended on.”
“You wrong me, my dear,” Michael retorted. “I’m going for my one solitary cocktail and then I’ll be back.”
“And only one, remember,” Alice warned him.
“You know me, my dear,” he said, “when I say one.”
“You sometimes mean only one at a time,” she laughed. “You are still the same consistent old Michael. And by the way, if Mr. Denby does happen to turn up, tell him we’ll be down soon.”
“I’ll send him in to Ethel if he comes.”
“Yes, please do,” the girl said brightly.
When she was left alone in the big hall, the coolest apartment in the big house during the afternoon, Ethel Cartwright went to the French windows and looked out over the smooth lawns to the trees at the back of them. A long drive wound its way to the highroad, up which she could see speeding a big motor. The porte-cochère was at the other side of the house and she retraced her steps to the hall she had left with the hope of meeting the man she had liked so much a year ago in Paris.
A minute later he was ushered in, but did not at first see her. Then, as he looked about the big apartment, he caught sight of the girl, and stood for a moment staring as though he could hardly venture to believe it was she.
“Miss Cartwright,” he cried enthusiastically, “is it really you?”