“I see I’ve talked for nothing,” said Leighton.  “It isn’t the Folly person that flattened me out.  It’s what’s around her, outside of her.”

“That’s what you think,” said Helene.  “But, still, it’s she I’d like to see.”

“That’s lucky,” said Leighton, “because you ’re going to.”

“When?”

“To-morrow.  Lunch.”

“What’s the idea?”

“The idea is this.  I’ve been looking her up, viewing her cradle and her mother’s cradle and that sort of thing.  I’d have liked to have viewed her father’s as well, but it’s a case of cherchez l’homme.”

“Well?”

“Well, the young lady’s an emanation from sub-Cockneydom.  My idea is that that kind can’t stand the table and grande-dame test.  I’ll supply the table, with fixtures, and you’re going to be the grande-dame.”  Leighton’s face suddenly became boyishly pleading.  “Will you, Helene?  It’s more than an imposition to ask; it’s an impertinence.”

For a moment Helene was serious and looked it.

“Glen,” she said, “you and I don’t have to ask that sort of thing—­not with each other.  We take it.  Of course I’ll come.  I’ll enjoy it.  But—­do you think she’s really raw enough to give herself away?”

“I don’t know,” said Leighton, gloomily.  “I couldn’t think of anything else.  Lunch begins to look a bit thin for the job.  At first I’d thought of one of those green-eyed Barbadian cocktails, followed by that pale-eyed Swiss wine of mine that Ivory calls the Amber Witch with the hidden punch.  But I’ve given them up.  You see, I told her I’d play fair if she did.”

“Yes, I see,” said Helene.

A psychologist would have liked an hour to study the lightning change that came over Folly when, on the following day, she suddenly realized Lady Derl.  Folly had blown into the flat like a bit of gay thistledown.  For her, to lunch with one man was the stop this side of boredom; but to lunch with two was a delight.  If she was allowed to pick the other woman, she could just put up with a partie carree.  But she hadn’t picked out Lady Derl.  Lady Derl was something that had never touched her world except from a box across the footlights on an occasional premiere.

One flash of Folly’s eyes took in Lady Derl, and then her long lashes drooped before Lady Derl had time to take in Folly.  Folly’s whole self drooped.  She was still a bit of thistle-down, but its pal, the breeze, was gone.  She crossed the room, barely touched Helene’s hand, and then fluttered down to stillness on the edge of a big chair.

At lunch Leighton made desperate efforts to start a breeze and failed.  Folly said “Yes” and Folly said “No,”—­very softly, too,—­and that was all.  Leighton stepped on Helene’s foot several times, but to no avail.  Lady Derl was watching Folly.  “Could she keep it up?  Yes, she could.”  Lady Derl couldn’t talk; she wanted to laugh.

Throughout that interminable lunch, Helene, Leighton, and Lewis saw nothing, thought nothing, but Folly, and, for all any one of them could see, Folly didn’t know it.  “Oh, you adorable cat!” thought Lady Derl.  “Oh, you adorable!” sighed Lewis to himself, and, inwardly, Leighton groaned, “Oh, you you!”