"I called on Linda and Mrs. Porter. Mrs. Porter told you, didn't she?"
"Yes. She came over, exuding gratitude to you at every pore, and adorably sympathetic and charming to me."
"Well, that's all right, isn't it?" returned Whitcomb, a little uncomfortable under his friend's gaze, which seemed more portentous than was necessary. "Women always overdo the gratitude business. Just like her to praise me for engineering an extra long vacation for myself."
"Freddy, you haven't told me everything," said King sternly. "Now, spit it right out in Papa's hand."
"What are you talking about?" asked the other uneasily.
"I don't know, but I'm going to find out. When Linda left Chicago I was the blackest sheep on her black list. What did you tell her to change her attitude? It wasn't that I had been ill, for she would have buried me cheerfully. Now, out with it!"
"Is this the third degree?" Whitcomb was gathering the daisies within reach.
"Yes. It wasn't any opinion you had of me contrary to hers. She thinks for herself; so give me the real stuff."
"Why do you believe she has changed?" Whitcomb returned the other's gaze now doggedly.
"Because, after you left, she wept;—according to impartial testimony, loud and long. Also she dug up my photograph and placed it on a table beside her father's. This information was fed to me with the jelly."