She and Ross Whitney were face to face.
There was no chance for evasion.

He, with heightened color, lifted his hat; she, with a nonchalance that made her proud of herself, smiled and stretched out her hand.

"Hello, Ross," said she, languidly friendly.
"When did _you_ come to town ?" And she congratulated herself that her hair had gone up so well that morning and that her dress was one of her most becoming--from Paris, from Paquin--a year old, it is true, but later than the latest in Saint X and fashionable even for Sherry's at lunch time.
Ross, the expert, got himself together and made cover without any seeming of scramble; but his not quite easy eyes betrayed him to her.
"About two hours ago," replied he.
"Is Theresa with you ?" She gazed tranquilly at him as she fired this center shot.

She admired the coolness with which he received it.
"No; she's up at her father's place--on the lake shore," he answered.

He, too, was looking particularly well, fresh yet experienced, and in dress a model, with his serge of a strange, beautiful shade of blue, his red tie and socks, and his ruby-set cuff-links.