"What search-light?" she asked, pivotting from Neville's greeting, letting her gloved hand linger in his for just a second longer than convention required. "Harry means that portrait of you I started last year," said Neville, vexed. "He pretends to find it full of psychological subtleties." "Do you?" inquired Valerie. "Have you discovered anything horrid in my character?" "I haven't finished looking for the character yet," said Sam with an impudent grin. "When I find it I'll investigate it." "Sam! Come here!" He came carefully, wincing when she took him by the generous lobes of both ears. "Now _what_ did you say?" "Help!" he murmured, contritely; "will no kind wayfarer aid me?" "Answer me!" "I only said you were beautifully decorative but intellectually impulsive--" "No, answer me, Sam!" "Ouch! _I_ said you had a pair of baby eyes and an obstinate mouth and an immature mind that came to, conclusions before facts were properly assimilated. In other words I intimated that you were afflicted with incurable femininity and extreme youth," he added with satisfaction, "and if you tweak my ears again I'll kiss you!" She let him go with a last disdainful tweak, gracefully escaping his charge and taking refuge behind Neville who was mixing another highball for Annan. "This is a dignified episode," observed Neville, threatening Ogilvy with the siphon. "Help me make tea, Sam," coaxed Valerie. "Bring out the table; that's an exceedingly nice boy. Rita, you'll have tea, too, won't you, dear?" Unconsciously she had come to assume the role of hostess in Neville's studio, even among those who had been familiar there long before Neville ever heard of her. Perfectly unaware herself of her instinctive attitude, other people noticed it. For the world is sharp-eyed, and its attitude is always alert, ears pricked forward even when its tail wags good-naturedly. Ogilvy watched her curiously as she took her seat at the tea table. Then he glanced at Neville; but could not make up his mind. It would be funny if there was anything between Valerie and Neville--anything more than there ever had been between the girl and dozens of her men friends. For Ogilvy never allowed himself to make any mistake concerning the informality and freedom of Valerie West in her intimacies with men of his kind. She was a born flirt, a coquette, daring, even indiscreet; but that ended it; and he knew it; and so did every man with whom she came in contact. Yet--and he looked again at her and then at Neville--there seemed to him to be, lately, something a little different in the attitudes of these two toward each other--nothing that he could name--but it preoccupied him sometimes. There was a little good-natured malice in Ogilvy; some masculine curiosity, too. Looking from Valerie to Neville, he said very innocently: "Kelly, you know that peachy dream with whom you cut up so shamefully on New-year's night? Well, she asked me for your telephone number--"