"No, never mind...." He leaned back in his chair, absently turning the
curious, heavily chiselled ring on his little finger, but every few
moments his expressive eyes reverted to her. She was eating her ice with
all the frank enjoyment of a schoolgirl.

"Do you know, Miss Seagrave, that you and I are really equipped for
better things than talking nonsense."

"I know that I am," she observed.... "Isn't this spun sugar delicious!"

"Yes; and so are you."

But she pretended not to hear.

He laughed, then fell silent; his dreamy gaze shifted from vacancy to
her--and, casually, across the room, where it settled lightly as a
butterfly on his wife, and there it poised for a moment's inexpressive
examination. Scott Seagrave was talking to Rosalie; she did not notice
her husband.

After that, with easy nonchalance approaching impudence, he turned to
his own neglected dinner partner, Sylvia Quest, who received his tardy
attentions with childish irritation. She didn't know any better. And
there was now no time to patch up matters, for the signal to rise had
been given and Dysart took Sylvia to the door with genuine relief. She
bored him dreadfully since she had become sentimental over him. They
always did.

Lounging back through the rising haze of tobacco-smoke he encountered
Peter Tappan and stopped to exchange a word.