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It's positively amazing the number of telephone calls he receives every afternoon from well-known society women!" "What about? And what's that got to do with Mr. Medford taking me in to dinner?" "Just this: Suppose Mrs. Rowden..." "Mrs. Rowden!" The girl was nonplussed. "Yes wants to find out who's in the club? She 'phones Garrison.
It was Rowden, who seized him and told him to come along. So, mildly protesting, he was ushered into a private dining-room where Clifford, rather red, jumped up from the table and welcomed him with a startled air which was softened by the unaffected glee of Rowden and the extreme courtesy of Elliott.
The lobbies were thronged. Braith ran up against Rowden and Elliott. "By Jove!" they cried, with one voice, "who'd have thought the little girl had all that in her? I say, Braith, does Rex know about her? When is he coming?" "Rex doesn't know and doesn't care. Rex is cured," said Braith. "And he's coming next week. Where's Clifford?" he added, to make a diversion.
Rowden, looking about, missed only one Gethryn, and he entered at the same moment. "Just in time," said Rowden, and made the move to the table. As Gethryn sat down, he noticed that the place on Rowden's right was vacant, and before it stood a huge bouquet of white violets. "Too bad she isn't here," said Rowden, glancing at Gethryn and then at the vacant place.
But Cecile, doubtless fascinated by the gaudy flies in Clifford's book, decided to accept lessons from him in the true art, and presently disappeared up the Ept with Clifford in tow. Elliott looked doubtfully at Colette. "I prefer gudgeons," said that damsel with decision, "and you and Monsieur Rowden may go away when you please; may they not, Jacqueline?" "Certainly," responded Jacqueline.
The triumvirate, with Thaxton, Rhodes, Carleton, and the rest, had been frequent visitors all winter at the "Menagerie," as Clifford's bad pun had named Gethryn's apartment; but, of late, other social engagements and, possibly, a small amount of work, had kept them away. Clifford was a great favorite with Yvonne. Thaxton and Elliott she liked. Rowden she tormented, and Carleton she endured.
"And the lamp?" "Is out." Nine Cholmondeley Rowden had invited a select circle of friends to join him in a "petit diner a la stag," as he expressed it. Eight months of Paris and the cold, cold world had worked a wonderful change in Mr Rowden. For one thing, he had shaved his whiskers and now wore only a mustache.
"I don't mind a crowd indeed I don't, and I am masked so perfectly." "What's the harm, Rex?" said Rowden; "she is well masked." "And when we return it will be time for supper, won't it?" "Yes, I should think so!" murmured Clifford. "Where do we go then?" "Maison Doree."
When he had emptied it of four handkerchiefs, a fan, and a pair of crumpled gloves as long as his arm, he decided it was not suited to add eclat to his charms and cast about in his mind for a substitute. Elliott was too thin, and, anyway, his coats were now under lock and key. Rowden probably was as badly off as himself. Hastings! Hastings was the man!
"Going out?" inquired the other, without turning. "Yes," he said, but lingered a moment over Elliott's shoulder, watching him pick out the lights in his sketch with a bit of bread. "To-morrow is Sunday," he observed after a moment's silence. "Well?" inquired Elliott. "Have you seen Colette?" "No, I will to-night. She and Rowden and Jacqueline are coming to Boulant's.
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