“Then who could it be?” Rose placed more plums in the preserving-pan.
“You ought to know.” Just the trace of a pout disfigured Rachel’s pretty mouth. “He’s a friend of yours, I believe; a very great friend, indeed.”
“I’ve a good many friends.” The preserving-pan was now full, and Rose sat down, to wait a few minutes till the fruit should be ready for bottling.
“Papa is simply in love with him. He says he can never repay him. And how he laughed when I told him that my gallant rescuer threw the digger into the water! Can’t you guess who it is, now?”
Rose was silent.
“Really, I think this stupid cooking and jam-making has made you silly. Why don’t you work in the morning, and go out in the afternoon to see your friends?”
Rose turned her blue eyes on her visitor. They distinctly said, “What business is that of yours?” But her lips said, “Now, really, how can I?”
“When a girl’s engaged”—Rachel sighed as she spoke—“she doesn’t care much about society.”
Rose smiled.
“At least that was the way with me.” Rachel’s carmine lips gave a little quiver at the corners. “I suppose you feel like that.”