“How stupid of me! Of course, he wouldn’t. Was it Richard Lindley?”
“Never!”
“I see. Yes, that was a bad guess: I’m sure Lindley’s just the same steady-going, sober, plodding old horse he was as a boy. His picture doesn’t fit a romantic frame—singing under a lady’s window in a thunderstorm! Your serenader must have been very young.”
“He is,” said Cora. “I suppose he’s about twenty-three; just a boy—and a very annoying one, too!”
Her companion looked at her narrowly. “By any chance, is he the person your little brother seemed so fond of mentioning—Mr. Vilas?”
Cora gave a genuine start. “Good heavens! What makes you think that?” she cried, but she was sufficiently disconcerted to confirm his amused suspicion.
“So it was Mr. Vilas,” he said. “He’s one of the jilted, of course.”
“Oh, `jilted’!” she exclaimed. “All the wild boys that a girl can’t make herself like aren’t `jilted,’ are they?”
“I believe I should say—yes,” he returned. “Yes, in this instance, just about all of them.”
“Is every woman a target for you, Mr. Corliss? I suppose you know that you have a most uncomfortable way of shooting up the landscape.” She stirred uneasily, and moved away from him to the other end of the bench.