Evadore laughed. “Do you know, that's really awfully good. He does put it on a bit, doesn't he?” “If you let Christian go on,” Peyton added, “he'll talk about the sacred ties of Anglo-Saxon blood and tradition, with the English and American exchange ruling the world. Gilbert, how did your artillery company get along with the Londoners?” “All right, if we were near a brick yard.” Claire rose abruptly, and they drifted out to a reception room opening, with a wide arch, beyond the hall. Gilbert Bromhead's wife hesitated; then, confidentially, she told Lee that she adored to sit on stairs. “Very well,” he assented; “these of the Morrises' are splendid.” He was a step below her, and her knees and his shoulder settled together. “I like older men so much,” she admitted what she had already so adroitly conveyed; “patches of grey above the ears are so distinguished.” “Older than what?” Apparently forgetful that her gesture included Gilbert Bromhead she indicated the rooms that now held the others. “Young men are so head over heels,” she particularized; “they are always disarranging things.” She laughed, a delectable sound. “I oughtn't to have said that, and I wouldn't--to them. I might almost tell you the story about the man in the department store and the drawers.” Their contact was more pronounced. “Isn't that English girl extraordinary? I didn't believe for a minute that was her own color till I was close to it. Her hair isn't dyed; but why does she wear that skimpy bang?” Again she laughed, a pure golden melody. “But you admired it, I know you did; men are so unaccountable. Could you trust her, do you think? It wasn't very nice to make fun of her husband.” Adroitly, without the flutter of a ruffle, she moved to a higher step, and Claire--before Lee had any premonition of her appearance--stood below them with chocolates. “She is rather attractive,” his companion admitted, when Claire had gone. “She doesn't like me, or Mrs. Wager, though; and I must say she made it plain in her own house. I've been studying her, and there is something wrong. Is she happy with Peyton Morris? I thought he was right nice until you came.” She turned for a better view, through the balustrade, of the doors beyond, and then drew her skirt close so that he could move up beside her. “It's just like a smoke-house in there,” she reported. “I don't truthfully think cigarettes are nice for a woman; and I wouldn't dream of taking whiskey; in the South we never. You'd call that out of date.” She bent forward, arranging the ribbon of a slipper, and her mouth met his in a long kiss. “What made you suppose you could do that?” she demanded; “how did you know I wouldn't be cross with you? But ... somehow I didn't mind. Although you mustn't again, so publicly. I wonder why, with you, it seemed so perfectly nice, and not at all as if I had only met you?”