ebody's latest novel and made him lose track of their conversation.

"Are you _really_ a realist?" asked Miss Balch.

"No, I don't think I am."

"Fancy," replied Miss Balch. "Then I think you would like a thing I got
out of the library the other day by one of these new Russians. He has
some dreadful name. Well, it is about this man, a peasant, who falls in
love with this Bolshevist agent, and she uses the man, you see, as a
tool. Then there is this other woman in it who----"

Leofwin had adopted a very free-and-easy manner, it seemed to Tom.
He was sitting with his legs crossed, hands folded, one arm over
the back of his chair, half facing Nancy. He was being extremely
bland and at his ease. It was the sort of thing one might do in
a Russian drawing-room, perhaps, where the ladies doubtless didn't
mind being bitten in a fit of passion, but it was decidedly not the
way to behave in Woodbridge--although it must be confessed that an
impartial observer might have failed to distinguish any marked
difference in the way Tom himself was sitting, since he, too, had
crossed his legs, folded his hands, and was half facing Nancy. It
was clear that Nancy was painfully trying to do the honours. "You
must let me see your pictures," Tom heard her say.

"... Really, Mr. Reynolds, I think you might listen to me when I'm
trying so hard to entertain you."

"Why, I heard everything you said. All about this new Russian."

"Sly boots!" said Miss Balch archly.

Tom wondered what the proper reply was. What he wanted to say, in the
same arch manner was "Puss Wuss!" but instead he just grinned brightly
and let it be inferred that he was thinking of all sorts of clever
things.

"A penny for your thoughts, sir," cried Miss Balch.

This was unbearable, especially since Henry was apparently enjoying it
so much.

"I hope you won't think me rude, but I was thinking of the great pile of
uncorrected test papers at home on my desk, and I am afraid you will
have to excuse me." He rose. The whole room rose.

He started for the door, and Nancy hurried over to him. "Isn't it
dreadful?" she seemed to say. Behind her, like Tartarin's camel, loomed
Leofwin.

"We'll meet here at twelve," Nancy said, and with an effort she managed
to include the cavalier and irrepressible artist, who, beaming and
bowing, showed in every corner of him his thorough approval of the whole
arrangement.

IX

By a coincidence, the two men arrived at ten minute