“You don’t really believe the story, that is, the ghost part of it?” asked Rossiter.
“N––o,” allowed Beth. “Still, I’d like to. It makes it interesting. Ptolemy and I are going down there some night to see if we can find the ghost.”
“You won’t see one,” I assured her. “Ptolemy’s presence would be sufficient to keep even a ghost in the background.”
“Ptolemy’s a peach,” declared Beth emphatically.
“If he were older, you wouldn’t think so,” said Rob.
“Why not?” asked Beth in surprise, or seeming surprise.
He smiled enigmatically, and irrelevantly asked her if she wouldn’t really be afraid to go to the haunted house at night with only Ptolemy for protection.
She assured him she shouldn’t be afraid of a ghost if she saw one, and that she shouldn’t be afraid to go alone.
Throughout the evening, which we spent in rowing, walking, and later at a little impromptu supper, I was interested in observing the puzzling behavior of Beth and my chum. I had expected that he would avoid her as much as possible and speak to her only when common politeness made conversation obligatory, and that she, a born coquette, would seek to add his scalp to her collection. Instead, to my surprise, their rôles were reversed. He appeared interested in her every remark and looked at her often and intently. He was quite assiduous in his attentions which, strange to say, she discouraged, not with the deep design of a flirt to increase his ardor, but with a calm firmness that admitted of no doubt as to her feelings.