“Whatever are you staring at?” she laughed.  “Me?  I don’t believe it!  Never have you so honoured me with your fixed attention, Captain Selwyn.  You really glare at me as though I were interesting.  And I know you don’t consider me that; do you?”

“How old are you, anyway?” he asked curiously.

“Thank you, I’ll be delighted to inform you when I’m twenty.”

“You look like a mixture of fifteen and twenty-five to-night,” he said deliberately; “and the answer is more and less than nineteen.”

“And you,” she said, “talk like a frivolous sage, and your wisdom is as weighty as the years you carry.  And what is the answer to that?  Do you know, Captain Selwyn, that when you talk to me this way you look about as inexperienced as Gerald?”

“And do you know,” he said, “that I feel as inexperienced—­when I talk to you this way?”

She nodded.  “It’s probably good for us both; I age, you renew the frivolous days of youth when you were young enough to notice the colour of a girl’s hair and eyes.  Besides, I’m very grateful to you.  Hereafter you won’t dare sit about and cross your knees and look like the picture of an inattentive young man by Gibson.  You’ve admitted that you like two of my features, and I shall expect you to notice and admit that you notice the rest.”

“I admit it now,” he said, laughing.

“You mustn’t; I won’t let you.  Two kinds of dessert are sufficient at a time.  But to-morrow—­or perhaps the day after, you may confess to me your approbation of one more feature—­only one, remember!—­just one more agreeable feature.  In that way I shall be able to hold out for quite a while, you see—­counting my fingers as separate features!  Oh, you’ve given me a taste of it; it’s your own fault, Captain Selwyn, and now I desire more if you please—­in semi-weekly lingering doses—­”

A perfect gale of laughter from the sofa cut her short.

“Drina!” she exclaimed; “it’s after eight!—­and I completely forgot.”

“Oh, dear!” protested the child, “he’s being so funny about the war in Samar.  Couldn’t I stay up—­just five more minutes, Eileen?  Besides, I haven’t told him about Jessie Orchil’s party—­”

“Drina, dear, you know I can’t let you.  Say good-night, now—­if you want Mr. Lansing and your Uncle Philip to come to another party.”

“I’ll just whisper one more confidence very fast,” she said to Boots.  He inclined his head; she placed both hands on his shoulders, and, kneeling on the sofa, laid her lips close to his ear.  Eileen and Selwyn waited.

When the child had ended and had taken leave of all, Boots also took his leave; and Selwyn rose, too, a troubled, careworn expression replacing the careless gaiety which had made him seem so young in Miss Erroll’s youthful eyes.

“Wait, Boots,” he said; “I’m going home with you.”  And, to Eileen, almost absently:  “Good-night; I’m so very glad you are well again.”