“No, Ted,” she replied, “I don’t feel like it, thanks.”
“What’s the matter?”
“Nothing.”
Courtney got out and came up on the verandah.
“I suppose,” he remarked, helping himself to a chair, “a person has to speak ahead these days, eh?”
“Oh, I’m not in such demand as all that, Ted,” she replied. “But I’m blue to-night.”
“Blue! Good Lord, girl, that’s tough. You need cheering. And I’m an awfully good cheerer, too.”
As he spoke he leaned back in his chair so that the light from the dining-room window struck fair upon his long, pleasant face. Freda, whose first wish had been that Courtney might just now find himself in hell or any other place, but her verandah, suddenly felt that, even in her present mood, human company was a relief.
“Ted,” she said. “I wonder if you ever have a serious thought in that head of yours.”
“Very seldom, Freda. This head has never ached with an idea. Why should it? I’d rather have it ache with sloe gin or curaçoa. An idea is so liable to turn out to be weak-kneed, or revolutionary, or expensive, and sloe gin is so simple and reliable.”