and his blond sister, Naïda, who had arrived that afternoon from the
Tappans' at Iron Hill, across the mountain.

Delancy Grandcourt, uncouth and highly coloured, stood up to shake
hands; Bunbury Gray, a wiry, bronzed little polo-playing squadron man,
hailed Duane with enthusiasm.

"Awfully glad to see you, Bunny," said Duane, who liked him
immensely--"oh, how are you?" offering his hand to Reginald Wye, a
hard-riding, hard-drinking, straight-shooting young man, who knew
nothing on earth except what concerned sport and the drama. He and his
sister of the sapphire eyes and brilliant cheeks were popularly known as
the Pink 'uns.

Jack Dysart arrived presently, graceful, supple, always smilingly,
elaborate of manner, apparently unconscious that he was not cordially
admired by the men who returned his greeting. Later, Rosalie, came,
enchantingly demure in her Greuze-like beauty. Chardin might have made
her; possibly Fragonard. She did not resemble the Creator's technique.
Dresden teacups tinkled, ice clattered in tall glasses, the two
fountains splashed away bravely, prettily modulated voices made
agreeable harmony on the terrace, blending with the murmur of leaves
overhead as the wind stirred them to gossip. Over all spread a calm
evening sky.

"Tea, dear?" asked Geraldine, glancing up at Mrs. Dysart. Rosalie shook
her head with a smile.

Lang, the second man, was flitting about, busy with a decanter of
Scotch. A moment later Rosalie signified her preference for it with a