Jack Neligage, with his eyes on Alice Endicott, had made his way over to the tea-table, and came up in time to hear this.
"The book, Miss Calthorpe?" he repeated. "Oh, you must be talking of that everlasting novel. I wish I had had the good luck to write it."
"Oh, I should adore you if you had, Mr. Neligage."
"By Jove, then I'll swear I did write it."
Fairfield regarded the girl with heightened color.
"You had better be careful, Miss Calthorpe," he commented. "The real author might hear you."
She started in pretty dismay, and covered with her hand the flower nestling under her chin.
"How do you know that?" demanded Jack laughingly.
She sank back into the corner of the sofa with a blush far deeper than could be called for by the situation.
"Oh, I just thought so," she said. "Who is there here that could have written it?"
"Why, Dick here is always scribbling," Neligage returned, with a chuckle. "Perhaps you have been telling him what you thought of his book."
The face of Fairfield grew suddenly sober.
"Come, Jack," he said, rising, "that's too stupid a joke to be worthy of you."
He was seized at that moment by Mrs. Harbinger, who presented him to Miss Wentstile. Fairfield had been presented to Miss Wentstile a dozen times in the course of the two winters since he had graduated at Harvard and settled in Boston; but since she never seemed to recognize him, he gave no sign of remembering her.
"Miss Wentstile," the hostess said, "don't you know Mr. Fairfield? He is one of our literary lights now, you know."
"A very tiny rushlight, I am afraid," the young man commented.
Miss Wentstile examined him with critical impertinence through her lorgnette.
"Are you one of the Baltimore Fairfields?" she asked.
"Indeed!" she remarked coolly. "I do not remember that I ever met a person from Connecticut before."
The lips of the young man set themselves a little more firmly at this impertinence, and there came into his eyes a keen look.
"I am pleased to be the humble means of increasing your experience," he said, with a bow.
Miss Wentstile had the appearance of being anxious to quarrel with somebody, a fact which was perhaps due to the conversation which she had had with her niece as they came to the house. Alice had been ordered to be especially gracious to Count Shimbowski, and had respectfully but succinctly declared her intention to be as cold as possible. Miss Wentstile had all her life indulged in saying whatever she felt like saying, little influenced by the ordinary restraints of conventionality and not at all by consideration for the feelings of others. She had gone about the room that afternoon being as disagreeable as possible, and her rudeness to Fairfield was milder than certain things which were at that very moment being resented and quoted in the groups which she had passed. She glared at the young man now as if amazed that he had dared to reply, and unfortunately she ventured once more.