Barth finished the tying of his shoestrings. Then he rose and picked up his collar.
“Oh, really!” he remonstrated, as he fumbled with the buttonholes. “Miss Howard can’t be expecting that I am going to bring a pig home in my arms.”
Brock rose.
“It is never safe to predict what a pretty woman will expect next,” he said oracularly. “I usually make a point of being ready for almost anything. As far as Miss Howard is concerned, I’d rather carry a pig for her than a bunch of roses for some women.”
This time, Brock’s words rang true. Moreover, they dismissed any doubts lingering in the mind of his companion.
“Oh, rather!” he assented, with some enthusiasm.
A mocking light came into Brock’s clear eyes.
“I am glad you agree with me. You knew her before I did, I believe.”
“Yes. At Sainte Anne-de-Beaupré. Miss Howard was very good to me, when I was there.” Over the top of his half-fastened collar, Barth spoke with simple dignity.
Brock liked the tone.