“I guess I’d say ‘engaged’—become engaged, I mean. Why?”
“Because I want to get to talk like Miss Wilkinson—and you. Will you correct me?”
“Certainly,” he agreed. Then, rising, “Now let’s go to a show—I think you need an outing.”
“All right—only—one thing more. Will you make me out a list of books to read?”
“Yes, I’ll send you one. I’ll write to you tomorrow. Now, run and get your coat.”
He put the gray cloak around her shoulders and they descended the steps together, arm in arm. At the same moment a car drew up in front of the house, and its occupant gazed at the couple in amazement. Could it be possible, thought John Hadley, that Marjorie was well enough to go out with Walter Richards?
“There’s no reason why I should be angry,” he mused, “for she hadn’t any engagement with me. But it does seem funny. Guess I’ll stop in and ask about her, as if I hadn’t seen a thing.”
Stepping out of his car, he assumed an air of indifference as he mounted the steps and rang the door-bell.
“Is Miss Marjorie in?” he asked of the maid.
“Yes, sir, but she’s ill,” came the surprising, the unbelievable reply, for had he not just seen her, in her gray cloak and dress, that he liked so well?