“A week.”
“How unkind of you, when you know I am consumed with curiosity!”
With the butterknife in his hand, Brock turned. Nancy, as she looked far into the depths of those clear gray eyes of his, was suddenly aware that all was right with Brock’s world. Moreover, she was aware that he was as eager as she herself for the week to pass away and give him the chance to speak.
“Then I really must wait,” she assented to the look in his eyes. “A week is a long time. Meanwhile, I have some news.”
“Good, I hope.”
“Certainly. We are expecting a guest, next Friday.”
“How unlucky for him!” Brock observed.
“Are you superstitious?”
“No; but you are.”
She raised her brows in question, and Brock answered the unspoken words.