“She seems to,” said Nina; “she was simply glorious after the swim, and I hated to put a stop to it.  And you should see her drying her hair and helping Plunket to roll the tennis-courts—­that hair of hers blowing like gold flames, and her sleeves rolled to her arm-pits!—­and you should see her down in the dirt playing marbles with Billy and Drina—­shooting away excitedly and exclaiming ‘fen-dubs!’ and ’knuckle-down, Billy!’—­like any gamin you ever heard of.  Totally unspoiled, Phil!—­in spite of all the success of her first winter!—­and do you know that she had no end of men seriously entangled?  I don’t mind your knowing—­but Sudbury Gray came to me, and I told him he’d better wait, but in he blundered and—­he’s done for, now; and so are my plans.  He’s an imbecile!  And then, who on earth do you think came waddling into the arena?  Percy Draymore!  Phil, it was an anxious problem for me—­and although I didn’t really want Eileen to marry into that set—­still—­with the Draymores’ position and tremendous influence—­But she merely stared at him in cold astonishment.  And there were others, too, callow for the most part. . . .  Phil?”

“What?” he said, laughing.

His sister regarded him smilingly, then partly turned around and perched herself on the padded arm of a great chair.

“Phil, am I garrulous?”

“No, dear; you are far too reticent.”

“Pooh!  Suppose I do talk a great deal.  I like to.  Besides, I always have something interesting to say, don’t I?”

“Always!”

“Well, then, why do you look at me so humorously out of those nice gray eyes? . . .  Phil, you are growing handsome!  Do you know it?”

“For Heaven’s sake!” he protested, red and uncomfortable, “what utter nonsense you—­”

“Of course it bores you to be told so; and you look so delightfully ashamed—­like a reproved setter-puppy!  Well, then, don’t laugh at my loquacity again!—­because I’m going to say something else. . . .  Come over here, Phil; no—­close to me.  I wish to put my hands on your shoulders; like that.  Now look at me!  Do you really love me?”

“Sure thing, Ninette.”

“And you know I adore you; don’t you?”

“Madly, dear, but I forgive you.”

“No; I want you to be serious.  Because I’m pretty serious.  See, I’m not smiling now; I don’t feel like it.  Because it is a very, very important matter, Phil—­this thing that has—­has—­almost happened. . . .  It’s about Eileen. . . .  And it really has happened.”

“What has she done?” he asked curiously.

His sister’s eyes were searching his very diligently, as though in quest of something elusive; and he gazed serenely back, the most unsuspicious of smiles touching his mouth.

“Phil, dear, a young girl—­a very young girl—­is a vapid and uninteresting proposition to a man of thirty-five; isn’t she?”

“Rather—­in some ways.”

“In what way is she not?”