“You looked like you had something on your mind, just then.”
The guest laughed artificially. “Not at all. You imagined it, really.” His hidden dark thing lurked behind his eyes yet, but he vanquished it temporarily. “I will ask a favor, however, before I . . . before I ask your advice. That you don’t mention our—conversation. The general trend of it, you know.” Fairchild watched him with curiosity. “To any of our mutual women friends,” he added further, meeting his host’s curious gaze.
“All right,” Fairchild agreed. “I never mention any of the conversations we have on this subject. I don’t reckon I'll start now.”
“Thank you.” Mr. Talliaferro was again his polite smug self. “I have a particular reason, this time, which I'll divulge to you as soon as I consider myself . . . You will be the first to know.”
“Sure,” said Fairchild again. “What is it to be this time?”
“Ah, yes,” said the guest with swift optimism, “I really believe that I have discovered the secret of success with them: create the proper setting beforehand, indifference to pique them, then boldness—that is what I have always overlooked. Listen: to-night I shall turn the trick. But I want your advice.” Fairchild groaned and lay back. Mr. Talliaferro picked his handkerchief from the table and whipped it about his ankles. He continued:
“Now, I shall make her jealous to begin with, by speaking of another woman in—ah—quite intimate terms. She will doubtless wish to dance, but I shall pretend indifference, and when she begs me to take her to dance, perhaps I'll kiss her, suddenly but with detachment—you see?”
“Yes?” murmured the other, cradling his head on his arms and closing his eyes.
