"I'd have
kept her for you, if I'd known. So long!"
A knocking at the door,--a rather low, suggestive knocking. Wingate knew
that it was an impossibility, but he nevertheless hastened to throw it
open. Miss Flossie Lane stood there, very becomingly dressed in a
tailor-made costume of covert coating. She wore a hat with yellow
buttercups, and she had shown a certain reticence as regards cosmetics
which amounted to a tacit acknowledgment of his prejudices.
"Miss Lane!" he exclaimed.
She looked at him with wide-open eyes.
"But you were expecting me, weren't you?" she asked. "I remembered your
inviting me quite well, but I couldn't remember where you said, so I
thought I'd better come and fetch you. I haven't done wrong, have I?"
"Most certainly not," Wingate replied. "Come in, please. I'll ring for a
cocktail and send the man down into the restaurant to engage a table."
She sank into an easy-chair and looked around her, while Wingate did as
he had suggested. The sitting room, filled with trophies of curiously
mixed characteristics--a Chinese idol squatting in one corner, some West
African weapons above it, two very fine moose heads over a quaintly
shaped fireplace, and a row of choice Japanese prints over the
bookcase--was a very masculine but eminently habitable apartment. Miss
Lane looked around her and approved.
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