“Foolish Dada! Don’t I always turn up?” she asked, kicking off her slippers. “I’d been fooling around all afternoon, and I hate getting dressed and waiting for a party to begin.” “I’ve noticed that,” Mills replied dryly. “Just what did you do all day? Your doings are always a mystery to me.” “Well--let me see--I went downtown with Millie this morning, and home with her for lunch, and we talked a while and I ran out to the Burtons’ and there were some people there and we gassed; and then I remembered I hadn’t seen Mrs. Torrence since she got home, so I took a dash up there. And Connie was there, and Bud Henderson came up with Mr. Storrs and we had tea and Mr. Storrs was coming this way so I let him drive me home.” This, uttered with smooth volubility, was hardly half the truth. She lighted a fresh cigarette and blew a series of rings while waiting to see whether he would crossexamine her, as he sometimes did. “Constance was there, was she? Anyone else?” “Fred Thomas and Georgy Whitford blew in just as I was leaving.” “So? I shouldn’t have thought Mrs. Torrence would be interested in them.” “Oh, she isn’t!” replied Leila, who hadn’t intended to mention Thomas or Whitford. “Connie was trying to talk Helen into taking a perfectly marvelous part in a new play the Dramatic Club’s putting on soon, and they are in it, too. Highbrow discussion; it bored me awfully--Mr. Storrs and I managed to escape together. Oh, dear, I’m sleepy!” “Does this Storrs go about among people you know?” Mills asked, extending his arm to the ash tray. “Oh, I think so, Dada! He was in college with Bud Henderson, you know, and is in Mr. Freeman’s office. Dale’s crazy about him. You could hardly say he’s pushing himself. Millie and I met him at the Faraway Club--didn’t you meet him that same night? I asked him to call and he hasn’t and he _has_ been to see Millie. I guess the joke’s on me!” “I saw him again at the Hardens’,” Mills remarked carelessly. “And ran into him afterwards when I was strolling around, and I brought him back with me to get out of the storm. It was the night of the Claytons’ party.” “Then you know as much about him as I do,” said Leila indifferently. “I think, Dada, if you don’t mind, I’ll seek the hay.” He stood to receive her good-night kiss. When he heard her door close he took several turns across the room before resuming his cigar. He sat down in the chair in which he had sat the night he brought Bruce into the house. Magazines and books were within easy reach of his hand, but he was not in a mood to read. He lifted his eyes occasionally to the portrait of his father on the opposite wall. It might have seemed that he tried to avoid it, averting his gaze to escape the frank, steady eyes. But always the fine face drew him back. When he got up finally and walked to the door it was with a hurried step as if the room or his meditations had suddenly become intolerable. CHAPTER NINE I