"So soon? You're not asked to the Forsythe's till five and it's not three yet." "I _could_ be going somewhere else first." "Oh--where?" "Somewhere out of this house--that's the main thing. Since the furnace was put in it's like a Turkish bath." "You're going for a walk?" Lorry went to the bed and picked up the hat. It was a new one with a French maker's name in the crown. "You oughtn't to hack this hat about, Chrystie. I wouldn't wear it when I went for a walk." "Do you think it would be better to wear it in the house? Having bought it I must wear it somewhere." Lorry, laughing, put on the hat and looked at herself in the glass. There was a moment's pause, then the chair creaked under a movement of Chrystie's, and her voice came very quiet. "Lorry, do you like Boye Mayer?" Lorry, studying the effect of the hat, did not answer with any special interest. The Perfect Nugget had lost all novelty for her. He came to the house now and then, was a help in their entertainments, and was always considerate and polite--that was all. "No, not much," she murmured. "Why not?" "It's hard to say exactly--just something." She placed her hand over a rakish green paradise plume to see if its elimination would be an improvement. "But if you don't like a person you ought to have a reason." "You don't always. It's just a feeling, an instinct like dogs have. I've an instinct against Mr. Mayer--he's not the real thing." Chrystie sat forward in the chair. "That's exactly what I'd say he was, and everybody else says so, too." "On the outside--yes, I didn't mean that. I meant deep down. I don't think he's real straight through--it's all varnish and glitter. Of course I don't mind his coming here the way he does; we don't see him often and he's amusing and pleasant. But I wouldn't like him to be on a friendly footing. In fact he never could be--I wouldn't let him." It was the voice of authority. Chrystie felt its finality, and guided by her own inner distress and the hopelessness of revolt, said sharply: "And yet you wouldn't mind Mark Burrage being on a friendly footing." "Mark Burrage!" There was something ludicrous in Lorry's face, full of surprise under the overpowering hat. "What has Mark Burrage to do with it?" Chrystie climbed somewhat lumberingly out of the chair. Her movements were dignified, her tone sarcastic. "Oh, nothing, nothing. Only if Mr. Mayer is so far below your standard I'm wondering where Mr. Burrage comes in." She stretched a long arm and snatched the hat. "Excuse me," she said with brusque politeness, setting it on her own head and turning to the glass, "but I really must be going. Only a salamander could live comfortably in this house." Lorry was startled. Her sister's face, deeply flushed, showed an intense irritation. "I don't understand you. You can't make a comparison between those two men. They're as different as black and white."