invitations, to see that there was none for the Booth-Higbys; and now his interest was doubly keen at receiving it three days late. Miss Ethel had succumbed to the weight of superior argument.
He turned in between the ornate gates of Red Towers—the two posts surmounted by lions upholding a mythical coat of arms—and drew up in the shadow of an imposing porte-cochère. A gay group of ladies and gentlemen were gathered in lounging chairs on the veranda, engaged with frosted glasses of mint julep; while Mrs. Booth-Higby herself, coifed and gowned as for an evening reception, was standing in the glass doors of the drawing-room. As her gaze fell upon Peter she strolled toward him with a voluminous rustle of draperies.
"Whose man are you?" she inquired, with an air of languid condescension.
Peter's face reddened slightly. The entire group had ceased their conversation to stare.
