“Thank you, for the smile. It was worth struggling for.”
He was gone before she could respond, but the smile lingered as her eyes followed his tall figure across the room. She saw him pause and speak to Prince Ugo, and then pass out with Lady Saxondale. Only Lady Saxondale observed the dark gleam in the Italian's eyes as he responded to the big American's unconventional greeting. On the way home she found herself wondering if Dorothy had ever spoken to the prince of Philip Quentin and those tender, foolish days of girlhood.
“Has she lost any of the charm?” she asked.
“I am not quite sure. I'm to find out on Friday.”
“Are you going back on Friday?” in surprise.
“To drink tea, you know.”
“Did she ask you to come?”
“Can't remember, but I think I suggested it.”
“Be careful, Phil; I don't want you to turn Dorothy Garrison's head.”
“You compliment me by even suspecting that I could. Her head is set; it can't be turned. It is set for that beautiful, bejewelled thing they call a coronet. Besides, I don't want to turn it.”
“I think the prince could become very jealous,” she went on, earnestly.
“Which would mean stilettos for two, I presume.” After a moment's contemplative silence he said: “By Jove! she is beautiful, though.”
Quentin was always the man to rush headlong into the very thickest of whatever won his interest, whether it was the tender encounter of the drawing-room or the dangerous conflict of the field.
When he left Lady Marnham's house late on Friday afternoon he was more delighted than ever with the girl he had once loved. He was with her for nearly an hour before the prince arrived, and he had boldly dashed into the (he called them ridiculous) days when she had been his
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