------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER VI THAIR PUTS IN HIS FINGER; CISSY HER FOOT THAIR, lounging down to breakfast the morning after the dance, found Cissy Fitz Hugh alone over a demoralized table. She gave him a nod that was cousinly in its curtness, shoved the muffins a little way toward him, and relapsed into an unwonted obliviousness. Reminiscently smiling, Thair watched her a moment before baiting her gently. “My good Cicely, you’re not very fit this morning,” he presently brought out with family frankness. She twitched the ruffles of her morning-gown, drew a plump hand up the sweep of her back hair, and launched at him: “Well, I’d like to know _who_ is after last night! Emma Budd is simply twittering. That great girl of hers is more dreadful than ever! It simply gets on my nerves. They’re all in such a state!” “Except—” he blinked at her. “I’m sure Mrs. Essington looks the worst of the lot.” “Who mentioned Mrs. Essington?” His eyebrows were exclamation-points. “Well, then who _are_ you talking about? I do wish, Charlie, you would sometimes say what you mean!” “Oh, why, so long as _I_, at least, mean what I say.” “Oh, well, if you’re going to be hateful! You were horrid enough last night!” Cissy whined. “It was with the best intentions,” he assured her. “Of course! I’ve noticed if any one ever does a thoroughly stupid thing, it’s always with the best intentions! And your bundling that _girl_ into the back seat with me, when I’d asked you, and was so counting on Mr. Longacre—when you promised—” “Oh, why not promise?” His tone was gentle resignation, a wicked consciousness in his half-shut eyes. “Well, you are a beast!” Cissy gasped. It was outrageous, such outspoken depravity! “Oh, let me have my finger in the pie,” he pleaded. “I wanted your Longacre somewhere else. If he must make love to some one, why not to Julia? It would be so awfully convenient for me, you know.” “Well, he didn’t!” said Cissy, triumphantly. “No, he did not,” Thair admitted gracefully. “Nor to you. We all go into the same ditch.” “I don’t know what you mean.” In their conversations this was the chronic state of Cissy’s intelligence. Thair smiled pleasantly. But her next move brought him up roundly. “_Who_ are you talking about?” “_Whom?_” He was imperturbably vague about her personal application. “Who _did_ he make love to?” On this, Thair’s air of being delicately shocked was maddening. “My good Cicely, how should I know? If _you_ knew,” he pursued with an air of mammoth secrecy, “what I _was_ up to—” But his diplomacy was outstripped by her sharpness. “Well, I _do_ know. So far as any one could see, you spent the evening hunting for—” her flash of revelation snapped the situation like a trap—“Mrs. Essington!”