“Oh, children, children!  When you reach my age,” groaned Arnold, “and have eaten up as many thousand miles as I, you’ll stay at home.”

“I’ve driven for three years now,” asserted Molly, “and every time I buy a new car I get the craze all over again.  This one I have now is a peach of an eight.  I never want to drive a six again,—­never!  I can bring it up from a creep to—­to fast enough to scare Grandfather into a fit, without changing gears at all—­just on the throttle—­” She broke off to ask, as at a sudden recollection, “What was it about Capua, anyhow?” She went to sit beside Sylvia, and put her arm around her shoulder in a caressing gesture, evidently familiar to her.

“It wasn’t about Capua at all,” explained Sylvia indulgently, patting the lovely cheek, as though the other girl had been a child.  “It was your grandfather finding out what a bad character I am, and how I wallow in luxury, now I have the chance.”

“Luxury?” inquired Molly, looking about her rather blankly.

Sylvia laughed, this time with a little veiled, pensive note of melancholy, lost on the others but which she herself found very touching.  “There, you see you’re so used to it, you don’t even know what I’m talking about!”

“Never mind, Molly,” Arnold reassured her.  “Neither do I!  Don’t try to follow; let it float by, the way I do!”

Miss Sommerville did not smile.  She thrust out her red lips in a wistful pout, and looking down into the sugar-bowl intently, she remarked, her voice as pensive as Sylvia’s own:  “I wish I did!  I wish I understood!  I wish I were as clever as Sylvia!”

As if in answer to this remark, another searcher after tea announced himself from the door—­a tall, distinguished, ugly, graceful man, who took a very fine Panama hat from a very fine head of brown hair, slightly graying, and said in a rich, cultivated voice:  “Am I too late for tea?  I don’t mind at all if it’s strong.”

“Oh!” said Molly Sommerville, flushing and drawing away from Sylvia; “Lord!” muttered Arnold under his breath; and “Not at all.  I’ll make some fresh.  I haven’t had mine yet,” said Sylvia, busying herself with the alcohol flame.

“How’re you, Morrison?” said Mr. Sommerville with no enthusiasm, holding out a well-kept old hand for the other to shake.

Arnold stood up, reached under his chair, and pulled out a tennis racquet.  “Excuse me, Morrison, won’t you, if I run along?” he said.  “It’s not because you’ve come.  I want a set of tennis before dinner if I can find somebody to play with me.  Here, Molly, you’ve got your tennis shoes on already.  Come along.”

The little beauty shook her head violently.  “No ... goodness no!  It’s too hot.  And anyhow, I don’t ever want to play again, since I’ve seen Sylvia’s game.”  She turned to the other girl, breathing quickly. “You go, Sylvia dear. I’ll make Mr. Morrison’s tea for him.”