“It isn't very hard to do that to-day,” and she moved over to make room for him. “Isn't it just perfect weather!”
At one time Minnie Webb and Harry Bartlett had been very close friends—engaged some rumors had it. But now they were jolly good companions, that was all.
“Seen the Carwells' new machine?” asked Bartlett.
“No, but I've heard about it. I presume they'll drive up in it to-day.”
“Does Viola run it?”
“I haven't heard. It's a powerful machine, some one said-more of a racer than a touring car, Mr. Blossom was remarking.”
“Well, he ought to know. I understand he's soon to be taken into partnership with Mr. Carwell.”
“I don't know,” murmured Minnie, and she seemed suddenly very much interested in the vein structure of a leaf she pulled from a vine that covered the summer-house.
Bartlett smiled. Gossip had it that Minnie Webb and Le Grand Blossom, Mr. Carwell's private secretary, were engaged. But there had been no formal announcement, though the two had been seen together more frequently of late than mere friendship would warrant.
There was a stir in front of the clubhouse, followed by a murmur of voices, and Minnie, peering through a space in the vines, announced: