Over his wineglass Arnold caught Sylvia’s eye, and winked.

“Still reading as much as ever, I suppose.”  Mr. Sommerville was not to be put down.  “When I last saw you, it was some fool socialistic poppycock about the iniquity of private exploitation of natural resources.  How’d they ever have been exploited any other way I’d like to know!  What’s socialism?  Organized robbery!  Nothing else!  ’Down with success!  Down with initiative!  Down with brains!’ Stuff!”

“It’s not socialism this time:  it’s Professor Merritt’s theories on property,” said Sylvia to the old gentleman, blandly ignoring his ignoring of her.

Page stared at her in astonishment.  “Are you a clairvoyant?” he cried.

“No, no,” she explained, laughing.  “You took it out of your pocket up there by the brook.”

“But you saw only the title.  Merritt’s name isn’t on the cover.”

“Oh, it’s a pretty well-known book,” said Sylvia easily.  “And my father’s a professor of Economics.  When I was little I used to have books like that to build houses with, instead of blocks.  And I’ve had to keep them in order and dusted ever since.  I’m not saying that I know much about their insides.”

“Just look there!” broke in Arnold.  “Did I ever see a young lady pass up such a perfectly good chance to bluff!”

As usual nobody paid the least attention to his remark.  The conversation shifted to a radical play which had been on the boards in Paris, the winter before.

After luncheon, they adjourned into the living-room.  As the company straggled across the wide, dimly shining, deeply shaded hall, Sylvia felt her arm seized and held, and turning her head, looked into the laughing face of Arnold.  “What kind of flowers does Judy like the best?” he inquired, the question evidently the merest pretext to detain her, for as the others moved out of earshot he said in a delighted whisper, his eyes gleaming in the dusk with amused malice:  “Go it, Sylvia!  Hit ’em out!  It’s worth enduring oceans of Greek history to see old Sommerville squirm.  Molly gone—­Morrison as poor as a church mouse; and now Page going fast before his very eyes—­”

She shook off his hand with genuine annoyance.  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Arnold.  You’re horrid!  Judith doesn’t like cut flowers at all,—­any kind.  She likes them alive, on plants.”

“She would!” Arnold was rapt in his habitual certainty that every peculiarity of Judith’s was another reason for prostrate adoration.  “I’ll send her a window-box for every window in the hospital.”  His admiration overflowed to Judith’s sister.  He patted her on the shoulder.  “You’re all right too, Sylvia.  You’re batting about three-sixty, right now.  I’ve always told the girls when they said Page was offish that if they could only get in under his guard once—­and somehow you’ve done it.  I bet on you—­” He began to laugh at her stern face of reproof.  “Oh, yes, yes, I agree!  You don’t know what I’m talking about!  It’s just alfalfa in Vermont!  Only my low vulgarity to think anything else!” He moved away down the hall.  “Beat it!  I slope!”