"How did you know? Who--who told you?" he stammered awkwardly.

"I think it must have been the cravat," I laughed.

"It _was_ a good guess," he said rather sheepishly (I suppose because
he hadn't said anything to me about her).

"She was tired of town. She's opening Briar Hills for a week or so.
Awfully nice girl, Roger. You've got to meet her right away."

"I shall be delighted," I remarked.

"She knows all about you. Oh, she's clever. You'll like her. Reads
pretty deep sort of stuff and can talk about anything."

"An intellectual attraction!" I commented. "Very interesting, and of
course rare."

"Very. We don't agree, you know, on a lot of things. She's way beyond
me in the modern philosophies. She's an artist, too--understands color
and its uses and all that sort of thing. She's very fine, Roger, and
good. Fond of nature. She wants to see my specimens. I'm going to have
her over soon. We could have a little dinner, couldn't we? She has a
companion, Miss Gore, sort of a poor relation. She's not very pretty,
and doesn't like men, but she's cheerful when she's expected to be.
You sha'n't care, shall you?"

"Yes, I shall care," I growled, "but I'll do it if you don't mind my
not dressing. I haven't a black suit to my name."

"Oh, that doesn't matter. Very informal, you know."

The motor was already buzzing in the driveway and he wasted little
time over his eggs.

"Fix it for tomorrow night, will you, Roger?" he flung at me from the
doorway as he slipped into his great coat. "Nothing elaborate, you
know; just a sound soup, entree, roast, salad and dessert. And for
wines, the simplest, say sherry, champagne and perhaps some port."

"Shall you be back to luncheon?" I inquired.

"No; dinner, perhaps. G'by!" And he was down the steps and in the
machine, which went roaring down the drive, cut-out wide, making the
fair winter morning hideous with sound. I stood in the doorway
watching, until only a cloud of blue vapor where the road went through
into the trees remained to mark the exit of the Perfect Man.

I turned indoors with a sigh, habit directing me to the door of the
study, where I paused, reminded of Jerry's final admonitions.
Dinner--"nothing elaborate," with an entree, salad, and wines to be
got for two women, Jerry's beautiful decadent who loved nature and
ornithology, and the "not very pretty" poor relation who didn't like
men but could be "cheerful when she was expected to be." Damn her
cheerfulness