Valerie leaned forward against the keyboard, laughing: 

“Oh, Rita!” she said, “what a confession!”

“You silly child,” retorted Rita, “I’m twenty-two.  Do you think I have the audacity to pretend I’ve never been in love?”

Ogilvy said with a grin:  “How about you, Miss West?”—­hoping to embarrass her; but she only smiled gaily and continued to play a light accompaniment to the fugitive air that was running through her head.

“Don’t be selfish with your experiences,” urged Ogilvy.  “Come on, Miss West!  ’Raus mit ’em!’”

“What do you wish me to say, Sam?”

“That you’ve been in love several times.”

“But I haven’t.”

“Not once?”

Her lowered face was still smiling, as her pliant fingers drifted into Grieg’s “Spring Song.”

“Not one pretty amourette to cheer those twenty-one years of yours?” insisted Ogilvy.

But his only answer was her lowered head and the faint smile edging her lips, and the “Spring Song,” low, clear, exquisitely persistent in the hush.

When the last note died out in the stillness Rita emphasised the finish with the ferrule of her parasol and rose with decision: 

“I require several new frocks,” she said, “and how am I to acquire them unless I pose for somebody?  Good-bye, Mr. Neville—­bye-bye!  Sam—­good-bye, Mr. Annan—­good-bye, dear,”—­to Valerie—­“if you’ve nothing better on hand drop in this evening.  I’ve a duck of a new hat.”

The girl nodded, and, as Rita Tevis walked out, turning up her nose at Ogilvy who opened the door for her, Valerie glanced up over her shoulder at Neville: 

“I don’t believe you are going to need me to-day after all, are you?” she asked.

“No,” he said, absently.  “I’ve a lot of things to do.  You needn’t stay, Miss West.”

“Now will you be good!” said Annan, smiling at her with his humourous, bantering air.  And to his surprise and discomfiture he saw the least trace of annoyance in her dark eyes.

“Come up to the studio and have a julep,” he said with hasty cordiality.  “And suppose we dine together at Arrowhead—­if you’ve nothing else on hand—­”

She shook her head—­the movement was scarcely perceptible.  The smile had returned to her lips.

“Won’t you, Miss West?”

“Isn’t it like you to ask me when you heard Rita’s invitation?  You’re a fraud, Mr. Annan.”

“Are you going to sit in that boarding-house parlour and examine Rita’s new bonnet all this glorious evening?”

She laughed:  “Is there any man on earth who can prophesy what any woman on earth is likely to do?  If you can, please begin.”

Ogilvy, hands clasped behind him, balancing alternately on heels and toes, stood regarding Neville’s work.  Annan looked up, too, watching Neville where he stood on the scaffolding, busy as always, with the only recreation he cared anything for—­work.