“Are you and Routt pretty good friends, Wint?”
“Yes,” he said, at once. “Jack’s the best friend I’ve got.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course. What’s the idea, Joan?”
She said reluctantly: “I don’t know. Only—I don’t seem to trust him. I don’t like him. I’m afraid of him.”
He laughed. “Good Lord! Jack’s harmless; he’s a prince.”
“I don’t think he’s as loyal to you as you are to him,” she said.
Wint exclaimed impatiently: “The way you girls get down on a fellow! Jack’s all right.”
Wint’s impatience made Joan quieter and more sure of herself. “I’m not sure,” she repeated, and smiled a little wistfully. “Just—don’t trust him too far, Wint.”
“I’d trust him with all I’ve got,” Wint said flatly. “I think you’re—I’m surprised at you, Joan.” The stubborn anger roused in the morning when Joan came upon him with Agnes reawoke in Wint. His jaw set, and his eyes were hard.