"Charles Wilbur!" exclaimed his wife severely. She threw off a down cover as if minded to rise.
"Cover yourself up, dear. It's rather cool."
"But that was encouraging him, Charlie."
"I think he perceived it dimly. He looked at me—a long gaze—by George, he's a good-looking boy—and he didn't say a word. Then we shook hands and rejoined the others."
"You have done very wrong," declared Mrs. Wilbur, pulling back the cover, but not lying down.
"What do you want for Diana, Laura? A title?"
"You needn't use that tone. I haven't thought out what I want for Diana."
"I have. I want happiness for her. From the day of my arrival here, I have seen signs. I'm a rich man, but there is one thing I can't buy for my only child, and that is happiness. Diana is a fastidious, carefully bred girl, unspoiled as they make 'em, yet, of course, just as liable to fall for an infatuation as Helen Loring was."
"But she hasn't, she has not, Charlie," interrupted his wife impetuously. "You don't know—"