French heels. Mr. Markham and I were just trying to decide whether
this stone bench wouldn't be just the place to do your portrait. If
you'll observe--"

The situation was so palpable. Hermia looked from one to the other
amusedly. Markham was following Olga's artistic dissertation with the
eye of dubiety, but their hostess was merciless.

"Olga, dear," she inquired sweetly, "did you know your back hair was
down?"

"Oh, is it? How provoking! Georgette is positively worthless!"

Even Olga's resourcefulness was not proof against Hermia's persistent
audacity, especially as she was aware of a smudge of face-powder on
John Markham's coat lapel which could not have been attributed by any
chance to the deficiencies of her unlucky maid.

"Poor Georgette!" said Hermia softly, watching Olga's fingers quickly
twist the erring strand into place.

At this moment there was a sound of footsteps on the walk and Reggie
Armistead, who, like an ubiquitous terrier, had at last found the
scent, came down the arbor on the run with Trevvy Morehouse after him,
a poor second, and emerged upon the scene.

"You're mine--" cried Reggie triumphantly. "I win!" He moved forward
and would have caught Hermia around the waist, but she dodged him.

"Reggie," she cried, "how dare you!"