‘Isn’t she pretty?’ cries Susan enthusiastically, when they have bidden good-bye to Crosby and Wyndham too, and are back again on their own small lawn.
‘She’s a regular bud,’ says Dom, striking a tragic attitude. He doesn’t mean anything really, but Carew, with darkling brow, goes up to him.
‘I think you ought to speak more respectfully of her,’ says he. ‘It isn’t because she is alone in the world that one should throw stones at her.’
‘Betty, I appeal to you,’ says Dominick. ‘Did I throw a stone? Come, speak up. I take this as a distinct insult. The man who would throw a stone at a woman—He’s gone!’ says Mr. Fitzgerald, staring at Carew’s disappearing form. ‘Well, I do call that mean. And I had arranged a peroration that would have astonished the natives. Anyway, Susan’—turning—‘what did I say to offend him? Called her a bud. Isn’t a bud a nice thing? I declare he’s as touchy about her as though she were his best girl.’
‘What’s a best girl?’ asks Betty.
‘The one you like best.’
‘Well, perhaps she’s his’—growing interested. ‘Susan, I do believe he is in love with her.’
‘Do you?’ says Susan thoughtfully. And then: ‘Oh no! Boys never fall in love.’
‘Dom thinks they do,’ says Betty, turning a saucy glance on Fitzgerald. She flings a rose at him. ‘Who’s your best girl?’ asks she.