"What a pity you're so happily engaged to be married," he threw out, with a feeling of guilt at the insincerity of the remark.
"Why?"
"Because Lucia and Beatrice and Ivy Markwick have all to go off. Lucia's overdue."
"There's your chance, then," said Pat irritably. "You once told me you were an adventurer."
"I am, but a most quixotic one, and young women aren't my game just now."
"What the devil is your game?"
"My game is rushing into places where even you fear to tread, old fellow, and rushing in to get bacon for you."
"God knows I don't want Lucia Markwick."
"Nor Beatrice, nor yet Ivy," asserted Paul. "I merely said, what a pity you're so happily engaged."
"I didn't like the way you said it."
"I'm sorry."
Patrick was still ruffled when Paul accepted an offer of whisky and soda in his rooms, where they were rapturously received by the imprisoned Aïda.
"You don't approve of Mademoiselle," Pat ventured bluntly.
Paul weighed the answer. "I approve of her as a shrewd little Armenian."
"But not as my future wife? I thought you didn't believe in drawing the line between nationalities."
"It's a question not of nationality but of personal quality. An ambitious man has to make his way in society as well as in business, and society judges him through the front his wife is able to put up. Would Mademoiselle feel at home at a reception given, say, by the American Consul-General? And could Mrs. Consul-General invite your in-laws?" Paul felt the thrusts cruel and found a way to mitigate them. "My attitude may
