She came in from the street, unconventionally removing her hat and gloves as she entered.

“Where have you been so long, Opal?” asked Mrs. Ledoux, with considerable anxiety.

“At the Colony Club, ma mere—­I read a paper!”

“Mon Dieu!” put in the Count, in an amused tone.  “On what subject?”

“On ‘The Modern Ethical Viewpoint,’ Comte,” she answered, nodding her little head sagely.  “It was very convincing!  In fact, I exploded a bomb in the camp that will give them all something sensational to talk about till—­till—­the next scandal!”

The Count gave a low chuckle of appreciation, while Mr. Ledoux asked, seriously, “But to what purpose, daughter?”

“Why, papa, don’t you know?  I had to teach Mrs. Stuyvesant Moore, Mrs. Sanford Wyckoff, and several other old ladies how to be good!”

And in the general laugh that followed, she added, under her breath, “Oh, the irony of life!”

Paul watched her in a fever of boyish jealousy as she passed through the family circle, bestowing her kisses left and right with impartial favor.  She made the rounds slowly, conscientiously, and then, with an air of supreme indifference, moved to the Boy’s side.

He leaned over her.

“Where are my kisses?” he asked softly.

She clasped her hands behind her back, child-fashion, and looked up at him, a coquettish daring in her eyes.

“Where did you put them last?” she demanded.

“You ought to know!”

“True—­I ought.  But, as a matter of fact, I haven’t the slightest idea.  It depends altogether upon what girl you saw last.”

“If you think that of me——­”

“What else can I think?  Our first meeting did not leave much room for conjecture.  And, of course——­”

“Opal!  You have just time to dress for dinner!  And the Count is very anxious to see the new orchid, you know!”

There was a suggestion of reproof in Mrs. Ledoux’s voice.  The girl’s face clouded as she turned away in response to the summons.  But she threw the Boy a challenge over her shoulder—­a hint of that mischief that always seemed to lurk in the corner of her eye.

Paul bit his lip.  He was not a boy to be played with, as Opal Ledoux would find out.  And he sulked in a corner, refusing to be conciliated, until at last she re-entered the room, leaning on the Count’s “venerable” arm.  She had doubtless been showing him the orchid.  Humph!  What did that old reprobate know—­or care—­about orchids?

    “A primrose by the river’s brim,
    A yellow primrose was to him,
    And nothing more.”

As the evening passed, there came to the Boy no further opportunity to speak to Opal alone.  She not only avoided him herself, but the entire party seemed to have entered into a conspiracy to keep him from her.  It roused all the fight in his Slavic blood, and he determined not to be outwitted by any such high-handed proceeding.  He crossed the room and boldly broke into the conversation of the group in which she stood.