"It's Petrovitch," she said, scarcely above a whisper.
"Thought so. Do you realize he beckoned to you as though you were his slave? I'd like to wring his beastly neck."
"Noel! It's Petrovitch! What does he care about our silly little conventions? He wants me. I must talk to him."
"Then he can damn well come here. And for Heaven's sake don't make a scene, Connie. Eat your lunch."
"I can't eat. I haven't seen him for fifteen years. Oh, Noel, I've never loved any one as I've loved him."
"Well, I don't see that it's anything to have hysterics about. What of it? He'll come and talk to you, I expect, when he's finished that enormous lunch he's ordered. That is, if you're foolish enough to wait."
"I must. Oh, Noel, have pity on me!"
Her lips trembled.
"Cheer up!" he said. "I'll sit here all day, if you'll order another Entre Côte. Have you ever noticed what queerly shaped heads some of these fellows have? If I were a woman, I'd study phrenology a bit. That's where you have the best of us. You women may—and I expect often do—
