“Huntington.”

“Why, please?”

“Huntington accepts my friendship, after a fashion.”

“But––the other?”

“Nothing doing!”

Marion stared at him, wondering.

“Fact!” he assured her, with a sheepish smile.

“But why?”

“Don’t know. I’d like to, but he lives like a hermit. Latchstring never hangs outside his door.”

There was a certain evidence of feeling in Smythe’s speech.