such a pride or any of the common cheerfulness, Ogle took note of two ladies whom he recognized painfully, in his own mind, as Honey and Baby, his table companions. They passed recurrently, making the round again and again, arm-in-arm, with no visible pleasure in their performance. Mrs. Tinker's expression remained no less aggrieved and disapproving than it had been at the lunch table; and the profile of her daughter, as it moved across the playwright's range of vision, between him and the sunny azure of the afternoon sky, showed even an increase of resentfulness, he thought, though the silhouette was undeniably a lovely one, and, except for its sullenness, might have been a very model of piquancy.
But this pretty Miss Libby Tinker was more than sullen; she was highly irritable, as she made evident in passing Ogle and Mme. Momoro for the fourth or fifth time. She switched away to a little distance from her mother, though without interrupting their forward progress—the movement was to rid herself of the fond maternal arm. "For heaven's sake, don't hang onto me!"
Mme. Momoro detached her thoughtful gaze from the sea to look after them. "Your American young
