"Why, Mr. O'Reilly, it was Mrs. Heron!" Clo cried, sinking back reluctantly upon her comfortably rigged-up bed, after a long stare through the window.
"'Mr. O'Reilly,' indeed? Don't you realize I'm your husband?" Justin laughed at her.
"I'd forgotten," said Clo. "It's only since this morning, and we've had so many things to think of."
"I've thought of nothing but you. You seem to have thought of nothing but your Angel—and these Herons."
"It's the Herons I'm thinking of now," Clo confessed. "Why did you tell the man to go on?"
"Why, I like old John Heron, but I'm not a spoil-sport."
"What do you mean?"
"I'm wondering if Mrs. Heron and that chap are on their way to the Sands' ball. If Heron doesn't mind letting them enjoy each other's company, why should I butt in?"
"Mr. Heron was in the car," Clo insisted gravely. "It was dark inside, but I saw his face at the window."
"You must have sharp eyes," said Justin. "The window looked black as a pocket to me."