Mrs. Harrington turned to Ethel Cartwright. “Didn’t you and Mr. Denby have a tiny row? You hardly spoke to him through dinner.”
“Didn’t I?” the girl answered. “I’ve a bit of a headache.”
“I’ll bet they had a lovers’ quarrel before dinner,” Nora hazarded.
Alice Harrington arched her eyebrows in surprise. “A lovers’ quarrel!”
“Certainly,” Nora insisted. “I’m sure Ethel is in love with him.”
“How perfectly ridiculous,” Ethel said, with a trace of embarrassment in her manner. “Don’t be so silly, Nora. I met him for a week in Paris, that’s all, and I found him interesting. He had big talk as well as small, but as for love—please don’t be idiotic!”
“Methinks the lady doth protest too much,” laughed her hostess.
“I don’t blame you, Ethel,” Nora admitted frankly. “If he’d give me a chance I’d fall for him in a minute, but attractive young men never bother about me. The best I can draw is—Monty! I’m beginning to dislike the whole sex.”
“Theoretically you are quite right, my dear,” said the maturer Alice; “men are awful things—God bless ’em—but practically, well, some day you’ll explode like a bottle of champagne and bubble all over some man.”
“Speaking of champagne,” Nora said after a disbelieving gesture at the prophecy, “I wish I had another of Michael’s purple drinks. He’s a genius.”