"That's true. I'm not at home to anybody. So you can't drop in, can you?" "You are not logical; I could drop in because I'm not anybody----" "What!" "I'm not anybody in particular----" "You know if you begin to talk that way, after all these days, I'll ring off in a rage. You are the only man in the world to whom I'm at home even over the telephone, and if that doesn't settle your status with me, what does?... Are you well, Mr. Quarren?" "Thank you, perfectly. I called you up to ask you about yourself." "I'm tired, somehow." "Oh, we are all that. Nothing more serious threatens you than impending slumber?" "I said I was tired, not sleepy. I'm wide awake but horribly lazy--and inclined to slump. Where are you; at the Legation?" "At the Founders' Club--foundered." "What are you doing there?" "Absolutely nothing. Reading the _Evening Post_." "You are dining out I suppose?" "No." She reflected until he spoke again, asking if she was still there. "Oh, yes; I'm trying to think whether I want you to come around and share a solitary dinner with me. Do I want you?" "Just a little--don't you?" "Do you want to come?" "Yes." "Very much?" "I can't tell you how much--over the telephone." "That sounds both humble and dangerous. Which do you mean to be?" "Humble--and very, very grateful, dear lady. May I come?" "I--don't know. Dinner was announced a quarter of an hour ago." "It won't take me three minutes----" "If it takes you more you'll ring my door-bell in vain, young man." "I'll start now! Good----" [Illustration: "'Do you remember our first toast?' he asked, smiling."] "Wait! I haven't decided. Really I'm simply stupid with the accumulated fatigues of two months' frivolity. Do you mind my being stupid?" "You know I don't----" "Shame on you! That was not the answer. Think out the right one on your way over. _À bien tôt!_" She had been in the drawing-room only a few moments, looking at the huge white orchids that Langly Sprowl had sent and which her butler was arranging, when Quarren was announced; and she partly turned from the orchids, extending her hand behind her in a greeting more confident and intimate than she had ever before given him. "Look at these strange, pansy-shaped Brazilian flowers," she said. "Kindly observe that they are actually growing out of that ball of moss and fibre." She had retained his hand for a fraction of a second longer than conventional acquaintance required, giving it a frank and friendly pressure. Now, loosing it, she found her own fingers retained, and drew them away with a little laugh of self-consciousness. "Sentiment before dinner implies that you'll have no room for it after dinner. Here is your cocktail." "Do you remember our first toast?" he asked, smiling. "No." "The toast to friendship?" "Yes; I remember it." She touched her lips to her glass, not looking at him. He watched her. After a moment she raised her eyes, met his gaze, returned it with one quite as audacious: