He was chatting in a corner with Ethel Mott, when Fred Rangely,
whose successful novel had made him vastly the fashion that winter,
joined them.
"When wit and beauty get into a corner together," was Rangely's
salutation, "there is sure to be mischief brewing."
"It isn't at all kind," Miss Mott retorted, "for you to emphasize the
fact that Mr. Fenton has all the wit and I not any."
"It is as kind," Fenton said, "as his touching upon the plainness of my
personal appearance."
"Your mutual modesty in appropriating wit and beauty," Rangely
returned, "goes well toward balancing the account."
"One has to be modest when you appear, Mr. Rangely," Miss Mott
declared, saucily, "simply to keep up the average."
"Come," Fenton said, "this will serve as an excellent beginning for a
quarrel. I will leave you to carry it on by yourselves. I have got too
old for that sort of amusement."
Rangely looked after the artist as the latter took himself off to join
Mrs. Staggchase, who was holding court not far away.
"You may follow if you want to," Ethel said, intercepting the glance.
Rangely laughed, a trifle uneasily.
"I don't want to," he replied, "if you will be good natured."
"Good natured? I like that! I am always good natured. You had better go
than to stay and abuse me. But then, as you have been at Mrs.
Staggchase's all the afternoon, you ought to be pretty well talked
out.
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