Florence found herself fronting Longacre, who was pent between Cissy Fitz Hugh’s pettish prettiness and Julia’s accented gaiety. He looked up at Florence as if he had come out of a dream. His eyes met hers across the table, whimsically asking: Wasn’t it, after all, just the jolliest, stupidest possible lark? But she did not answer the look. She wouldn’t. The smile that she did give him was a mere good morning, the same as she had given Holden when he drew back her chair for her. Her whole attention seemed for Thair, who had immediately turned on her the genial impudence of his odd, light eyes that seemed to see consummately through half-closed lids. “You are truly the most extraordinary person,” he was saying. “One sees you in the first flush of day half a mile on the road to the sea. And presently you come in, straight from the fountain of youth, and remember immediately how many lumps you take in your coffee.” “And you—” She just hesitated. She saw Longacre still looking at her—“are too delightfully naïve!” Her eyes returned to Thair’s mocking face. “It’s not a medicine one permits one’s self before breakfast.” He laughed with whetted interest. “What will you have? I am all at your commands.” “Mercy, Charlie,” Cissy cut in, “I should think you’d know all any one expects of you is to be amusing!” She glanced maliciously at Mrs. Budd. “Can you prove your reputation for wit?” Florence asked him. Thair leaned back, chin up, eyes down. He was enjoying himself. “The reputation for wit,” he proclaimed, “hangs on the things a man _has_ said, and the things you hope he’ll presently say. He’s like the ‘white queen’ in what’s-its-name—jam yesterday, jam to-morrow, but never jam to-day.” “Speaking of jam,” Julia plumped in nonchalantly, “will you please pass me the marmalade, Mr. Thair? (Never mind, Wong!) Mama,” she called across the table, “has it been decided whether we are to ride or drive over to the links?” The question caught an undercurrent of attention through the talk. Not that the method of progression so much mattered to the breakfasters, as the company in which they traveled. They hung upon Mrs. Budd as the arbiter of their fate. “Why, both, pet.” The hostess’s glance flashed upon her guests at large, though her reply, obviously, was limited to her daughter. “I have ordered the surrey. That and Mr. Thair’s machine take half of us, but you young people will, of course, prefer your saddles.” “You’ll ride?” Holden murmured to Florence. She looked down at his big, blunt hand, resting on the table. “Did you say your horses were here?” “Why, yes, the span are. Drove ’em down from Palo Alto.” He was eager “Would you rather—” The tail of his sentence was lost in Julia’s clear voice. “Bess and I are going in the ‘red devil,’” she announced. Thus a queen might proclaim her progression. The blooming, blonde creature included in this edict threw a nervous glance at Thair. But he was all amiable irony.