his whole body. He was so innocently eager to impress her, to win her approval.
She decided to humor him. "I thought you did very nicely, Harold," she fibbed. "You've got the proper spirit. If you'll just listen to all that rough Cavendish man and Chester Trask tell you, you'll get along."
"You bet I will," he maintained staunchly. "And I'll listen to them, never fear. Chester Trask is a personal friend of mine, you know."
He turned as he heard himself hailed in a feminine voice from an automobile parked at the curb near the Hotel Tate.
"Hello, Mr. Lamb," shrilled the thin soprano of Grace Beach. And then, somewhat less cordially, "Good afternoon, Peggy."
Harold, who had not seen Grace since the boresome party after the movies and felt a little guilty over it, greeted her with overcordiality. Peggy, on the other hand, was rather cool. She knew the spinstery Miss Beach very well.
The other occupants of the car joined half-heartedly in Grace's salutations. On the front seat of Joe Bartlett's shiny automobile sat the simpering Grace beside Joe. In the tonneau lounged Grace's cousin Delphine and Leonard Trask. The latter two seemed rather absorbed in each other and hardly looked up to acknowledge Harold's presence. The blonde hair of Delphine was a little tousled.
