“That’s just it. But don’t say it right out to him. Use tact, which I know you have—though nobody’d guess it to look at you—and sort of argue around, so he’ll see it’s wiser for her not to marry him——”
“Why?”
Miss Lane stamped her foot impatiently. “I’m not saying why. That’s enough for me to know. You’ll get along better not knowing.”
“Does he know she’s the—the——”
“I don’t wonder you can’t say it! I can’t, either. Yes, he knows she’s—it—but he’s so crazy about her, he doesn’t care. What is there in that girl that gets all the men!”
“It’s her sweetness,” said Fibsy, with a positive nod of his head, as if he were simply stating an axiom. “Yep, Keefe is clean gone daffy over her. I don’t blame him—though, of course my taste runs more to——”
“Don’t you dare!” cried Genevieve, coquettishly.
“To the rouged type,” Fibsy went on, placidly. “To my mind a complexion dabbed on is far more attractive than nature’s tints.”
Miss Lane burst into laughter and, far from offended, she said:
“You’re a darling boy, and I’ll never forget you—even in my will; now, to come back to our dear old brass tacks. Will you tip a gentle hint to the great Stone?”