“I started to and then somebody always said something,” said Lulu humbly.

Nothing could so much as cloud Lulu’s hour.  She was proof against any shadow.

“Say, but you look tremendous to-night,” Dwight observed to her.

Understanding perfectly that this was said to tease his wife, Lulu yet flushed with pleasure.  She saw two women watching, and she thought:  “They’re feeling sorry for Ina—­nobody talking to her.”  She laughed at everything that the men said.  She passionately wanted to talk herself.  “How many folks keep going past,” she said, many times.

At length, having noted the details of all the clothes in range, Ina’s isolation palled upon her and she set herself to take Ninian’s attention.  She therefore talked with him about himself.

“Curious you’ve never married, Nin,” she said.

“Don’t say it like that,” he begged.  “I might yet.”

Ina laughed enjoyably.  “Yes, you might!” she met this.

“She wants everybody to get married, but she wishes I hadn’t,” Dwight threw in with exceeding rancour.

They developed this theme exhaustively, Dwight usually speaking in the third person and always with his shoulder turned a bit from his wife.  It was inconceivable, the gusto with which they proceeded.  Ina had assumed for the purpose an air distrait, casual, attentive to the scene about them.  But gradually her cheeks began to burn.

“She’ll cry,” Lulu thought in alarm, and said at random:  “Ina, that hat is so pretty—­ever so much prettier than the old one.”  But Ina said frostily that she never saw anything the matter with the old one.

“Let us talk,” said Ninian low, to Lulu.  “Then they’ll simmer down.”

He went on, in an undertone, about nothing in particular.  Lulu hardly heard what he said, it was so pleasant to have him talking to her in this confidential fashion; and she was pleasantly aware that his manner was open to misinterpretation.

In the nick of time, the lobster was served.

* * * * *

Dinner and the play—­the show, as Ninian called it.  This show was “Peter Pan,” chosen by Ninian because the seats cost the most of those at any theatre.  It was almost indecent to see how Dwight Herbert, the immortal soul, had warmed and melted at these contacts.  By the time that all was over, and they were at the hotel for supper, such was his pleasurable excitation that he was once more playful, teasing, once more the irrepressible.  But now his Ina was to be won back, made it evident that she was not one lightly to overlook, and a fine firmness sat upon the little doubling chin.

They discussed the play.  Not one of them had understood the story.  The dog-kennel part—­wasn’t that the queerest thing?  Nothing to do with the rest of the play.

“I was for the pirates.  The one with the hook—­he was my style,” said Dwight.

“Well, there it is again,” Ina cried.  “They didn’t belong to the real play, either.”