"Yes," returned Page, looking down at her as she stood in her white wrap, an unconsciously adoring expression in his eyes; "this summer is an experience that one could wish would never end. Going away," he smiled vaguely, "leaving you, having these weeks come to an end, is almost as difficult to grasp in prospect as the thought of death."
Clover laughed softly. "We won't borrow trouble," she said. "Good-night."
CHAPTER XXIV.
DRESS PARADE.
"Do you think Jack enjoyed himself?" asked Clover, when her sister crossed the hall to her room that night for the usual last word before retiring.
"I suppose he did. How anxious you are about Jack all the time! You make an absolute fetish of him. It used to mislead me."
"Did it?" Clover smiled, and turned back to her dressing-table.
"Yes, indeed, and no wonder. It is a good thing, however, that I was mistaken, else I'm sure there would have been coffee and pistols ordered for two. I want your opinion, Clover, on a delicate question. Supposing a man of some strength of character spends a whole evening at a dance following about after a woman, smiling pensively at her face, or the back of her head, or her shoulder, or whatever of her he can get to smile at, and finding spots of vantage from which he can behold her dance when he is not dancing with her himself. Supposing he flies about to bring her glasses of water, and wraps, and fans, and performs all the other offices which are usually the privilege of her partners, driving said partners to the last pitch of exasperation. What, I ask you, is the matter with that man?"
Clover turned her tender glance upon her sister, marveling that the spirit of mischief could be so rampant in her eyes.
"Dear," she said reproachfully, "that man is very deeply in love."