"That's something new—Lita sprinting for the telephone!" Jim laughed. "And to talk to father!" For the life of her, Nona could not have told why she stopped short with a vague sense of embarrassment. Dexter Manford had always been very kind to his stepson's wife; but then everybody was kind to Lita. Jim's head was bent over the pilaff; he took it down in quick undiscerning mouthfuls. "Well, I hope he's saying something that will amuse her: nothing seems to, nowadays." It was on the tip of Nona's tongue to rejoin: "Oh, yes; it amuses her to say that nothing amuses her." But she looked at her brother's face, faintly troubled under its surface serenity, and refrained. Instead, she remarked on the beauty of the two yellow arums in a bronze jar reflected in the mahogany of the dining-table. "Lita has a genius for flowers." "And for everything else—when she chooses!" The door opened and Lita sauntered back and dropped into her seat. She shook her head disdainfully at the proffered pilaff. There was a pause. "Well—what's the news?" Jim asked. His wife arched her exquisite brows. "News? I expect you to provide that. I'm only just awake." "I mean—" But he broke off, and signed to the butler to remove his plate. There was another pause; then Lita's little head turned on its long interrogative neck toward Nona. "It seems we're banqueting tonight at the Palazzo Manford. Did you know?" "Did I know? Why, Lita! I've heard of nothing else for weeks. It's the annual feast for the Marchesa." "I was never told," said Lita calmly. "I'm afraid I'm engaged." Jim lifted his head with a jerk. "You were told a fortnight ago." "Oh, a fortnight! That's too long to remember anything. It's like Nona's telling me that I ought to admire my drawing-room because I admired it two years ago." Her husband reddened to the roots of his tawny hair. "Don't you admire it?" he asked, with a sort of juvenile dismay. "There; Lita'll be happy now—she's produced her effect!" Nona laughed a little nervously.
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