"I know you are not offended," he murmured. "Are you?" She knew she was not, too; but she merely shrugged. "Then why do you ask me, Mr. Dysart?" "Because you have such pretty shoulders," he replied seriously. "What an idiotic reply to make!" "Why? Don't you think you have?" "What?" "Pretty shoulders." "I don't think anything about my shoulders!" "You would if there was anything the matter with them," he insisted. Once or twice he turned his handsome dark gaze on her while she was dissecting her terrapin. "They tip up a little--at the corners, don't they?" he inquired anxiously. "Does it hurt?" "Tip up? What tips up?" she demanded. "Your eyes." She swung around toward him, confused and exasperated; but no seriousness was proof against the delighted malice in Dysart's face; and she laughed a little, and laughed again when he did. And she thought that he was, perhaps, the handsomest man she had ever seen. All debutantes did. Young Grandcourt turned from the pretty, over-painted woman who, until that moment, had apparently held him interested when his food failed to monopolise his attention, and glanced heavily around at Geraldine. All he saw was the back of her head and shoulders. Evidently she was not missing him. Evidently, too, she was having a very good time with Dysart. "What are you laughing about?" he asked wistfully, leaning forward to see her face. Geraldine glanced back across her shoulder. "Mr. Dysart is trying to be impertinent," she replied carelessly; and returned again to the impertinent one, quite ready for more torment now that she began to understand how agreeable it was. But Dysart's expression had changed; there was something vaguely caressing in voice and manner as he murmured: "Do you know there is something almost divine in your face." "What did you say?" asked Geraldine, looking up from her ice in its nest of spun sugar. "You so strenuously reject the truthful compliments I pay you, that perhaps I'd better not repeat this one." "Was it really more absurd flattery?" "No, never mind...." He leaned back in his chair, absently turning the curious, heavily chiselled ring on his little finger, but every few moments his expressive eyes reverted to her. She was eating her ice with all the frank enjoyment of a schoolgirl. "Do you know, Miss Seagrave, that you and I are really equipped for better things than talking nonsense." "I know that I am," she observed.... "Isn't this spun sugar delicious!" "Yes; and so are you." But she pretended not to hear. He laughed, then fell silent; his dreamy gaze shifted from vacancy to her--and, casually, across the room, where it settled lightly as a butterfly on his wife, and there it poised for a moment's inexpressive examination. Scott Seagrave was talking to Rosalie; she did not notice her husband.