Whitcomb's eyes also sought the moon path and a perplexed line came in his forehead.
"No," he admitted. "Something has happened to Linda. She's different. I can't say that she ever let me come very near to her, but now—since she left Chicago, she has grown away from me; far away. She seems to have a lot of new ideas that I can't follow. I don't seem to get on with her."
"And you do get on with Madge Lindsay?" suggested King.
"Isn't she a peach?" ejaculated Whitcomb, turning to his companion a suddenly bright face. "Why, it's like owning a whole vaudeville company to be with her. Little slender thing that looks as if you could snap her in two between your thumb and finger; but game! Gee, but she's game!"
"She is game," agreed King, the vapor-cloud which had obscured a trifle the full sun of his happiness melting away.
"Of course, a man doesn't connect sentiment with that sort of girl," went on Whitcomb, "but she's a comrade: just as good as a chap, you know."
"I understand perfectly," returned King, "but sometimes these delightful chaps in petticoats have very feminine hearts; and you don't want to break them in two between thumb and finger."
"Oh, rot," returned Whitcomb, trying not to look pleased. "There she is," he continued, starting up from his camp-stool as a figure in a pale wrap of some sort came out on the piazza. "That's another thing about Madge. She can change her clothes in a jiffy."
"Hold on a bit, will you?" said King quietly.
"Sure. Long as you like. Madge and I thought perhaps you'd come over to the rock with us and listen to the Loreleis."