"Tell me something about her."
"There isn't much. Jeanne—I love the French twist, don't you?—Jeanne's a queer, dear girl, Pelham; always busy with labor committees, or something as uplifting and tiresome."
"I've never heard of her, except from you. Is she kin to the Andersons?"
"Oh, no; her people are northern. She was living with an aunt in Philadelphia; tired of her, and skipped out. Another of her modern notions.... She's intelligent; but, then, brains don't marry,—they go to Congress. Or is it the other way? Anyhow, Lyman says that I have no brains." She smiled provocatively.
This time he came, in answer to her pouting, unworded bidding. He was heartily glad, as apparently eager arms gave her the desired harborage, that the other girl was by now blocks away.
A day or two later he telephoned, and on Friday evening came by the Anderson house at eight.
"I'll be down in a minute," she called from the top of the balustrade.
The Andersons were away for the month, he recalled. With a pleasant restlessness, he prowled around the cosy living-room, and finally selected a library book on the table. It was by a favorite author; but the title, "A Modern Utopia," was new to him. He was into the second chapter when she appeared.
"What a remarkable Wells book!"
She smiled at the enthusiasm. "You don't mind walking, do you?... It's stuffy inside."