ostess, then at young Delancy Grandcourt, who, not
perceptibly abashed by his mother's left-handed compliments, lounged
beside her, apparently on the verge of a yawn.

"My mother says things," he explained patiently; "nobody minds 'em....
Shall we exchange nonsense--or would you rather save yourself until
dinner?"

"Save myself what?" she asked nervously.

"The nuisance of talking to me about nothing. I'm not clever."

Geraldine reddened.

"I don't usually talk about nothing."

"I do," he said. "I never have much to say."

"Is that because you don't like debutantes?" she asked coldly.

"It's because they don't care about me.... If you would talk to me, I'd
really be grateful."

He flushed and stepped back awkwardly to allow room for a slim, handsome
man to pass between them. The very ornamental man did not pass, however,
but calmly turned toward Geraldine, and began to talk to her.

She presently discovered his name to be Dysart; and she also discovered
that Mr. Dysart didn't know her name; and, for a moment after she had
told him, surprise and a confused sense of resentment silenced her,
because she was quite certain now that they had never been properly
presented.

That negligence of conventions was not unusual in this new world she
was entering, she had already noticed; and this incident was evidently
another example of custom smilingly ignored. She looked up
questioningly, and Dysart, instantly divining the trouble, laughed in
his easy, attractive fashion--the fashion he usually affected with
women.

"You seemed so fresh and cool and sweet all alone in this hot corner
that I simply couldn't help coming over to hear whether your voice
matched the ensemble. And it surpasses it. Are you going to be
resentful?"

"I'm too ignorant to be--or to laugh about it as you do.... Is it
because I look a simpleton that you come to see if I really am?"

"Are you planning to punish me, Miss Seagrave?"

"I'm afraid I don't know how."

"Fate will, anyway, unless I am placed next you at dinner," he said with
his most reassuring smile, and rose gracefully.

"I'm going to fix it," he added, and, pushing his way toward his
hostess, disappeared in the crush.

Later young Grandcourt reappeared from the crush to take her in. Every
table seated eight, and, sure enough, as she turned involuntarily to
glance at her neighbour on the right, it was Dysart's pale face, cleanly
cut as a cameo, that met her gaze. He nodded bac