"Which he is, of course." The dismal exclamation broke from Page unawares.
Clover stared at him. "Oh no, he isn't," she said gently, after a minute.
"What!"
"No, indeed. Jack and I always were good comrades, and always will be, I hope."
Page suddenly took both her hands excitedly, and laughed aloud.
"Pardon me," he said, sobering suddenly. "I was forgetting where we were." He drew her hand within his arm and they started to walk. "Pretty little light things these bamboo houses are," he continued. "What a gentle life they suggest. I don't know exactly why I am so glad to hear what you tell me, Mrs. Van Tassel. I was under a mistaken idea that you and Jack were—and it is no reflection upon Jack that I am relieved. He is a fine fellow. There is no man I like better; so it is—it is really difficult for me to explain why—why"—
"Never mind trying, Mr. Page," returned Clover, smiling softly at a cage of doves outside a cottage door. "It isn't necessary," she added demurely, "to label every feeling one has."
"It is a sort of habit of mine," he returned apologetically. "What is this long straw building?"
"The theatre."
"Will you come in?"