These things bore somewhat hardly on Jack Crooks. She was a frank, unspoiled, straight-forward girl, and loyalty to her friends was one of her distinguishing features. But she was very human, and the general male adoration of her guest made her just a little tired. No young hostess likes to be completely outshone by a visitor, even a very lovely one, and to find herself practically overlooked by the young men of her own town was a new and unpleasant experience.
“I thought Joe, anyway, had more sense,” she reflected. “She doesn’t care for him any more than for the others, and he ought to see it. Oh, well, let him burn his fingers. I don’t care.”
But she did care, because he was a very old friend, and she rather resented the pumping process to which Miss Garwood subjected her one evening. That young lady, after eliciting certain information as to the habits, characters, and worldly prospects of several young gentlemen, at last came around to Kent, a sequence which was suspicious in itself.
“Now your Mr. Kent, dear—tell me about him!”
“He’s not my Mr. Kent,” said Jack, a shade of red stealing into her cheeks. “Joe’s a nice boy, quite the nicest I know. We played together when we were kids—that is, he condescended to amuse me when he was nine and I was five, and that’s quite a concession for a boy, isn’t it? Lately he’s been away at college, and so we haven’t seen much of each other.”
“His father died recently. He is the only son, isn’t he?”
“Yes. And his mother died when he was a little fellow, so he is quite alone. He is carrying on the business himself.”
“It’s a big business, isn’t it? Somebody said the late Mr. Kent was quite wealthy.”
Jack’s brows drew together a little. She disliked these questions, perfectly natural though they were.
“I believe he was; that is, of course, he owned mills and timber limits and so on. I suppose Joe is well off, but he has never confided in me.”