“How perfectly absurd of you, Royal. Have you forgotten that he is in love with Sylvia? I asked her partly for you, partly for Orr.”
“Is he coming too! Good Lord! it is going to be ghastly.”
But at the side of the room a portière was being drawn and a servant announced:
“Miss Waldron.”
With the charming manner of the thoroughbred New York girl a young woman entered. She was tall, willowy, with a face such as those one used to see in keepsakes—delightful things which now, like so many other delightful things, are seen no more.
As she approached Mrs. Loftus, who had risen to greet her, she made a little courtesy.
“Sylvia, this is so dear of you. And is your mother very well?”
Again the portière was drawn. A voice announced:
“Miss Price.”
Then there appeared a girl adorably constructed—constructed, too, to be adored. She was slight and very fair. Her mouth resembled the red pulp of some flower of flesh. Her eyes were pools of purple, her hair a turban of gold.
Cannibalistically Loftus looked the delicious apparition up and down. He could have eaten it.
“ Mr. Annandale,” the voice announced.
A man, big and blond, with a cavalry mustache and an amiable, aimless air, strolled in.