“One can talk better in the open, don't you think?” he urged, with a significant glance toward Penrod.
Margaret also glanced keenly at Penrod. “Well, perhaps.” And then, “I'll get my hat,” she said.
Penrod was on his feet before she left the room. He stretched himself.
“I'll get mine, too,” he said.
But he carefully went to find it in a direction different from that taken by his sister, and he joined her and her escort not till they were at the front door, whither Mr. Blakely—with a last flickering of hope had urged a flight in haste.
“I been thinkin' of takin' a walk, all afternoon,” said Penrod pompously. “Don't matter to me which way we go.”
The exquisite oval of Mr. Claude Blakely's face merged into outlines more rugged than usual; the conformation of his jaw became perceptible, and it could be seen that he had conceived an idea which was crystallizing into a determination.
“I believe it happens that this is our first walk together,” he said to Margaret, as they reached the pavement, “but, from the kind of tennis you play, I judge that you could go a pretty good gait. Do you like walking fast?”
She nodded. “For exercise.”
“Shall we try it then?”