“Not yet,” he gasped.  “Are you?”

“No!” she cried, and with that they both laughed again; and the pastime proceeded, increasing both in its gaiety and in its gravity.

Observing its continuance, Mr. Robert Lamhorn, opposite, turned from a lively conversation with Edith and remarked covertly to Sibyl that Miss Vertrees was “starting rather picturesquely with Jim.”  And he added, languidly, “Do you suppose she would?”

For the moment Sibyl gave no sign of having heard him, but seemed interested in the clasp of a long “rope” of pearls, a loop of which she was allowing to swing from her fingers, resting her elbow upon the table and following with her eyes the twinkle of diamonds and platinum in the clasp at the end of the loop.  She wore many jewels.  She was pretty, but hers was not the kind of prettiness to be loaded with too sumptuous accessories, and jeweled head-dresses are dangerous—­they may emphasize the wrongness of the wearer.

“I said Miss Vertrees seems to be starting pretty strong with Jim,” repeated Mr. Lamhorn.

“I heard you.”  There was a latent discontent always somewhere in her eyes, no matter what she threw upon the surface of cover it, and just now she did not care to cover it; she looked sullen.  “Starting any stronger than you did with Edith?” she inquired.

“Oh, keep the peace!” he said, crossly.  “That’s off, of course.”

“You haven’t been making her see it this evening—­precisely,” said Sibyl, looking at him steadily.  “You’ve talked to her for—­”

“For Heaven’s sake,” he begged, “keep the peace!”

“Well, what have you just been doing?”

“SH!” he said.  “Listen to your father-in-law.”

Sheridan was booming and braying louder than ever, the orchestra having begun to play “The Rosary,” to his vast content.

“I count them over, la-la-tum-tee-dum,” he roared, beating the measures with his fork.  “Each hour A pearl, each pearl tee-dum-tum-dum—­What’s the matter with all you folks?  Why’n’t you sing?  Miss Vertrees, I bet a thousand dollars you sing!  Why’n’t—­”

“Mr. Sheridan,” she said, turning cheerfully from the ardent Jim, “you don’t know what you interrupted!  Your son isn’t used to my rough ways, and my soldier’s wooing frightens him, but I think he was about to say something important.”

“I’ll say something important to him if he doesn’t!” the father threatened, more delighted with her than ever.  “By gosh! if I was his age—­or a widower right now—­”

“Oh, wait!” cried Mary.  “If they’d only make less noise!  I want Mrs. Sheridan to hear.”

“She’d say the same,” he shouted.  “She’d tell me I was mighty slow if I couldn’t get ahead o’ Jim.  Why, when I was his age—­”

“You must listen to your father,” Mary interrupted, turning to Jim, who had grown red again.  “He’s going to tell us how, when he was your age, he made those two blades of grass grow out of a teacup—­and you could see for yourself he didn’t get them out of his sleeve!”