“I'll tell you the whole story.” George got from the bench and began to pace, filling his pipe.
With a tender little smile Mary watched her George's dear face. Then, as he still paced, lit his pipe, gustily puffed, but did not speak, a tiny troubled pucker came between her eyes. There was a suspicion of a silly little tremor in her voice when at last she asked: “Anything wrong, old man?”
George inhaled a vast breath of smoke; let it go in a misty cloud. With a quick action he laid his pipe upon the table; sprang to her side. His right arm he put about her, in his left hand he clasped both hers. “Nothing wrong,” he cried brightly; “not a bit wrong. Mary, it's a game, a plot, a dickens of a game.”
“Well, tell me,” she said, beaming.
“It wants your help.”
“Well, tell me, tell me, stupid.”
“You will help?”
“Of course, if I can. Oh, do tell me, Georgie!”
“I'll show you, that's quicker.”
He sprang to the basket; unstrapped the lid; threw it back. A most exquisite orange head upreared. A queenly back arched. A beautiful figure stepped forth.