. . . Still he did and that was the end of it. When that set grimness left his face it looked sensitive and eager, almost boyish . . . and no doubt he could be ardent enough. He was boxed up—had been—would have to be now more than ever if he loved her as much as he thought he did. She gave a sigh of pity. Poor devil. Why had he lit on her of all girls? Polly was——But she turned her thoughts away from Polly. And Eustace. If she had grown up at Carteret Manor she never would have married Eustace; she’d have taken him on as a brother. He wouldn’t have done for a hero of romance at all, perfectly delightful as he was in so many ways. Odd, too. He and Geoffrey were not unlike. Both were fair, had much the same compact tall figures, both intellectual and the product of their times. Perhaps they both belonged to what Polly would call her “type,” and it was just that subtle difference that made Geoffrey romantic (in costume) and Eustace prosaic. Costume certainly didn’t improve _him_. He’d looked simply awful as old Cornbury. . . . It was nice to be married to dear Eustace. Not for a moment could she regret it. What use? No romance for her. But it was exciting to imagine what it would have been like if she had been one of those other Gita Carterets. She couldn’t even feel sad over it—too much of a philosopher, no doubt. She felt more like the heroine of a play—acting someone else’s lines but feeling the real thing for the moment. . . . No wonder she had been upset at that very real declaration in that very prosaic dining-room. . . . Horribly upset. Thought she was going to faint. . . . Odd, though, she hadn’t felt . . . what was it. . . . What. . . . She yawned prodigiously and fell asleep. CHAPTER VII When Polly entered she was standing before the long mirror of the dressing-table in her yellow bedroom, brushing her hair back and up. She liked the springing effect it gave her head, as if she were about to leap upward and fly, and she was full of vanity and had forgotten Geoffrey Pelham. “Hullo, Polly darling,” she exclaimed. “You look as fresh as if you’d gone to bed at nine last night. I’m disgracefully lazy. I’ll be glad to get back to the manor and go to bed at a decent hour once more.” “I’m tired of late hours, myself.” Polly adjusted her flexible spine to a comfortable chair and lit a cigarette. She wore a red gown and had painted her lips to match. Gita smiled sympathetically. “Your mother told me she’s going to Atlantic City this week, but I hope you don’t mean to go before the party. You could stay here and sleep on that day-bed.” “No, thanks. I lay down on it once! I’m not going with mother. Dad always keeps the apartment open and I’ll stay with him for a while.” “Good! We leave in about ten days and it will be heavenly to have you here. I suppose you’ll be going about the same time?” “I may stay here all summer.”