"You're going to kiss me!"
"No! Please no! I don't--I don't understand us, even now. Can't we be
just playmates a while yet? But--I do like you!"
She fled. When she reached the hall she found her eyelids wet.
It was the next afternoon---Claire was curled on the embroidered linen counterpane of her bed,
thinking about chocolates and Brooklyn and driving through Yellowstone
Park and corn fritters and satin petticoats versus crêpe de chine and
Mount Rainier and Milt and spiritualism and manicuring, when Mrs. Gilson
prowled into her room and demanded "Busy?" so casually that Claire was
suspicious.
"No. Not very. Something up?"
"A nice party. Come down and meet an amusing man from Alaska."
Claire took her time powdering her nose, and ambled downstairs and into
the drawing-room, to find---Jeff Saxton, Mr. Geoffrey Saxton, who is the height of Brooklyn Heights,
standing by the fireplace, smiling at her.