"Just going. Mr. Hume and I have been talking."
"About the affairs of the nation," said Philip.
"But I'm off now. Good-night, Dale."
Dale looked closely at her.
"What are your eyes red for? Have you been crying?"
"Crying, Dale? What nonsense! I've been roasting them before the fire, that's all; and if they are red, it's not polite to say so, is it, Mr. Hume?"
"Rightly understood, criticism is a compliment, as the reviewers say when they slate you," remarked Philip. "He might not have noticed your eyes at all."
"Inconceivable," said Dale politely, for he was feeling very kindly disposed to this pretty girl, who came when he wanted her, and went when—well, after a reasonably long visit.
"Good-night, Dale. I'm so sorry about—Mr. Roberts, you know."
Dale, having no further use for this grievance, was graciously pleased to let it be forgotten.