She teased the old man relentlessly. She teased Mark before his guests at the first luncheon. Her variations appalled the man. She seemed to know all the printable gossip of New York. She spoke to older women with a charming patience, played absurd English songs to amuse Mark’s pet critic and got the smallest of the managers in a loud good temper by agreeing with his debatable views on stage lighting. Most of these, his friends, had forgotten that she was Mark’s niece. Their compliments were made as on a daughter. He felt the swift spread of a ripple; editors of fashion monthlies telephoned to ask for photographs; the chief of a Sunday supplement wanted her views on the American Red Cross; a portrait painter came calling. “Silly ass,” said Margot, “I met him in Devonshire. I hate being painted. You’ve never had a portrait done? Dreary. One has to sit and smirk.” She went fluttering a yellow frock up the library to find an ash tray, came back smoking a cigarette, neared Mark’s chair then veered off to pat Carlson’s jaw. “You used to set like a kitchen stove in one spot for an hour at a time,” Carlson said, “Now you’re all over the place.” “One has to move about in England to keep warm. Dad, I wrote Ronny Dufford to send you a copy of his play. Ronny’s land poor, you know? It’s made mountains of money but I don’t think he’s half out of debt, yet. Such a nice idiot. He liked Gurdy such a lot. What the deuce an’ all is Gurdy doing in Chicago? Bargin’ about with the pigstickers?” She shed her mixture of slangs when his broker’s wife came to luncheon. Mark didn’t think it affected that she mainly talked of titled folk to the smart, reticent woman. Mrs. Villay invited her to Southampton before leaving. Margot shook her hair free of two silver combs and shrugged as the front door shut. “I suspect her of being a ferocious snob. Sweet enough, though. Fancy she doesn’t read anything but Benson and the late Mrs. Ward.--Oh, no, Mrs. Ward isn’t late, is she? Simply lamented.” Mark laughed, “Let’s go talk to Mr. Carlson.” “You always call him Mister. Just why, darling?” “Well, he’s forty years older than me, sister. And he made me. He--” “Tosh! You made yourself! Let’s walk over and see how the Walling’s getting on.”