she had chosen, moreover, she had them in abundance. Milly, who had gone up the ladder a step at a time, would have been more than human had she not envied her friend the qualities she wore with the indifference of a regular royal queen.
The clock on the chimney-piece struck four.
"I'm feeling quite excited," Milly suddenly remarked.
From the depths of the opposite chair came the note which for six months now had cast a spell upon London.
"He mustn't know that," laughed Mary. "Dignity, my child, touched with hauteur, is the prescription for a marquis. At least that's according to the book of the words." And she gayly waved the novel she had neglected for nearly an hour.
"Oh, Sonny," said Milly Wren, "I wasn't thinking of him. I was thinking of the friend he is bringing, who is simply dying to know you."
Mary knew this was quite true, for that was Milly's way.
"Oh, is he!" If the tone was disdain, its sting was masked by gentle irony and humor. These airs and graces didn't make enemies, they so frankly belonged to the wonderful Mary Lawrence—her name in the theater. That which might have been mere petulance in a nature thinner of texture, became with her a half-royal impatience for the more trivial aspects of the human comedy.
"But I want to see him," persisted Milly. "Sonny thinks no end of him."
"Then I'm sure he's nice."
"Why do you think so?" Milly was a little intrigued by the warmth of the words.
