“Couldn't we let it hang fire indefinitely? Perhaps you could learn to love me. Then there would be no need to go.” Garrison smiled deliberately up into her eyes, the devil working in him.
Miss Desha returned his look steadily. “And the other girl--the clinging one?” she asked calmly.
“Oh, she could wait. If we didn't hit it off, I could fall back on her. I would hate to be an old bachelor.”
“No; I don't think it would be quite a success,” said the girl critically. “You see, I think you are the most detestable person I ever met. I really pity the other girl. It's better to be an old bachelor than to be a young--cad.”
“And what is a cad?” he asked abstractedly.
“One who shames his birth and position by his breeding.”
“And no question of dishonesty enters into it?” He could not say why he asked. “It is not, then, a matter of moral ethics, but of mere--well----”
“Sensitiveness,” she finished dryly. “I really think I prefer rank dishonesty, if it is offset by courtesy and good breeding. You see, I am not at all moral.”
Here Mrs. Calvert made her appearance, with a book and sunshade. She was a woman whom a sunshade completed.
“I hope you two have not been quarreling,” she observed. “It is too nice a day for that. I was watching the slaughter of the innocents on the tennis-court. Really, you play a wretched game, William.”
“So I have been informed,” replied Garrison. “It is quite a relief to have so many people agree with me for once.”
“In this instance you can believe them,” commented the girl. She turned to Mrs. Calvert. “Whose ravings are you going to listen to now?” she asked, taking the book Mrs. Calvert carried.
“A matter of duty,” laughed the older woman. “No; it's not a novel. It came this morning. The major wishes me to assimilate it and impart to him its nutritive elements--if it contains any. He is so miserably busy--doing nothing, as usual. But it is a labor of love. If we women are denied children, we must interest ourselves in other things.”
“Oh!” exclaimed the girl, with interest; “it's the years record of the track!” She was thumbing over the leaves. “I'd love to read it! May I when you've done? Thank you. Why, here's Sysonby, Gold Heels, The Picket--dear old Picket! Kentucky's pride! And here's Sis. Remember Sis? The Carter Handicap--”