“He’s a lesson to me,” said Clifford. Then he unfolded a small perfumed note, written on rose-colored paper, which had been lying on the table before him.
He read it, smiled, whistled a bar or two from “Miss Helyett,” and sat down to answer it on his best cream-laid note-paper. When it was written and sealed, he picked up his stick and marched up and down the studio two or three times, whistling.
“Going out?” inquired the other, without turning.
“Yes,” he said, but lingered a moment over Elliott’s shoulder, watching him pick out the lights in his sketch with a bit of bread.
“To-morrow is Sunday,” he observed after a moment's silence.
“Well?” inquired Elliott.
“Have you seen Colette?”
“No, I will to-night. She and Rowden and Jacqueline are coming to Boulant’s. I suppose you and Cécile will be there?”
“Well, no,” replied Clifford. “Cécile dines at home to-night, and I—I had an idea of going to Mignon’s.”
Elliott looked at him with disapproval.
“You can make all the arrangements for La Roche without me,” he continued, avoiding Elliott’s eyes.
“What are you up to now?”
“Nothing,” protested Clifford.
“Don’t tell me,” replied his chum, with scorn; “fellows don’t rush off to Mignon’s when the set dine at Boulant’s. Who is it now?—but no, I won’t ask that,—what’s the use!” Then he lifted up his voice in complaint and beat upon the table with his pipe. “What’s the use of ever trying to keep track of you?
