A more observant man might have noted the sudden change in expression that the name Harrington produced in Steven Denby. He had previously been bored at the idea of meeting a woman who he concluded would be eager to impart her guide-book knowledge. Alice evidently had meant nothing to him, but Alice Harrington roused a sudden interest.
“Not by any chance Mrs. Michael Harrington?” he queried.
Monty nodded. “The same. She and Michael are two of the best friends I have. He’s a great old sport and she’s hurrying back because he has to stay on and can’t get over this year.” Monty flushed becomingly. “I’m going back with her because Nora is going to stay down in Long Island with them.”
“Introduce me to Nora,” Denby insisted. “She is a new motif in your jocund song. Who is Nora, what is she, that Monty doth commend her?”
“She’s the girl,” Monty explained. He sighed. “If you only knew how pretty she was, you wouldn’t talk about a trap being baited. I don’t think women are the good judges they pretend to be!”
“Why not?” Denby demanded.
“Because Alice says she’d accept me and I don’t believe I stand a ghost of a chance.”
“Women are the only judges,” Denby assured him seriously. “If I were you I’d bank on your friend Alice every time.”
“Then you’ll dine with me to-morrow?” Monty asked.
“Of course. You don’t suppose I am going to lose sight of you, do you?”