"Oh, you--you are beyond words!" she said.

"You had better get along to the bar and drink there.

You'll find your own kind there to drink with." "I'd rather drink with you," said Rufus.
She uttered a laugh that was tremulous with anger.

"You've done it for the first and last time, my man," she said.
With the words she turned like a darting, indignant bird, and left him.
Someone was entering the drawing-room from the hall with a careless, melodious whistle--a whistle that ended on a note of surprise as Columbine sped through the room.

The whistler--a tall, bronzed young man in white flannels--stopped short to regard her.
His eyes were grey and wary under absolutely level brows.