“Only half a dozen couples, I believe. Mostly the old crowd—you and Dot and Sue Emery and Sarah Wheeler—and those two married girls Kit is so thick with—Madge Keen and Babs Macy.”
“Why don’t you tell me which boys?” teased Linda, with a twinkle in her eye. “Don’t you think I’m interested?”
“I hoped you weren’t. Now that your friend Jackson Carter has gone back South where he belongs, with that fascinating drawl of his, I rather hoped I’d have you to myself.”
“Well, I’m going to the party with you!”
“Yes, but that doesn’t say it’ll be more than two minutes before some fellow cuts in. Why in the name of peace and enjoyment they always invite more fellows than girls to a party is something to make me wonder.”
“It’s to make us happy—to make us seem popular,” explained Linda.
“Nobody has to make you seem popular!” he returned, morosely.
“Tell me the boys, Ralph!” she repeated.
“Men, my child—not boys! Why, three of ’em are married. And the rest of us would like to be,” he muttered, under his breath.
But he refused to tell her; she’d find out soon enough for herself. Her first discovery, when Ralph stopped his car at his sister’s, proved to be one of her oldest friends, Harriman Smith, a young man whom she had not seen for several months. He dashed down the steps to greet her.