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Anthony rocked in glee.

“My God! Whose legs?”

“Hers. She talked a lot about hers. As though they were a sort of choice bric-à-brac. She aroused a great desire to see them.”

“What is she—a dancer?”

“No, I found she was a cousin of Dick’s.”

Anthony sat upright so suddenly that the pillow he released stood on end like a live thing and dove to the floor.

“Name’s Gloria Gilbert?” he cried.

“Yes. Isn’t she remarkable?”

“I’m sure I don’t know—but for sheer dulness her father—”

“Well,” interrupted Maury with implacable conviction, “her family may be as sad as professional mourners but I’m inclined to think that she’s a quite authentic and original character. The outer signs of the cut-and-dried Yale prom girl and all that—but different, very emphatically different.”

“Go on, go on!” urged Anthony. “Soon as Dick told me she didn’t have a brain in her head I knew she must be pretty good.”

“Did he say that?”

“Swore to it,” said Anthony with another snorting laugh.

“Well, what he means by brains in a woman is—”