Surely this was honest and manly, and anything further would have been folly between mere boys and girls.
But both girls regarded him as the greatest hero in all the wide world, and, girl-like, both thought they could never, never, never care for another fellow as they cared for him. Inza would have promised to marry him—some time—if he had asked her; but that was something he had avoided, knowing such boy-and-girl vows were seldom kept.
Elsie was so conscientious that she had thought it wrong to accept more than the simplest attentions from Frank. She had thought it would be betraying her friend.
Frank had laughed at her. In the Florida swamps he had saved her from kidnapers, and in Africa he had rescued her from a gorilla. After such experiences it would have been most remarkable had their friendship continued simple and prosaic. It would not have been human, and, for all of his unusual qualities and accomplishments, Frank was human.
But now he fancied he understood why Inza had treated him as she had when they met in London. Elsie—dear, honest little Elsie—had written her friend about Frank, and all Inza’s passionate jealousy had been aroused.
Frank looked at Inza, and she gave him something like an accusing glance. Then he knew he had hit upon the truth.
“Yes,” said Mr. Burrage, without observing the glances which passed between the boy and girl, “Inza and Elsie are such warm friends, you know. Elsie was very enthusiastic about you.”
“Very,” said Inza.
After a time, Mr. Burrage seemed tired, and the boy and girl fell to chatting by the window, while the invalid dozed in the easy-chair.
“Poor father!” said the girl. “It does not take much to tire him now.”