Phil suddenly brightened. “Let’s go to Wheaton Hill some afternoon,” he suggested. “And up to Hadbury another day. I want to see the polo-field. Brampton’s going to play Hadbury soon. And there’s a new litter of collies at the St. Ives kennels. We’ll canter over and see ’em.”
“How I’ve missed you these two years!” said Sue. “I’ve ridden a lot, of course. But my tennis has suffered. And not a single fish have I caught. The other men—even Bob and Courtney and Len, too—all wait on me when I ride with them or fish. I hate that: I hate being treated like a drawing-room ornament. Now, you, Phil,——”
“Can be pretty nearly as rude and selfish as a brother,” broke in Phil.
“You’re more like a—a chum,” said Sue. “And so I’m awfully glad to get you back, not a bit spoiled, and not—married.”
Phil stared. “Married!” he repeated. “Me?”
“Hillcrest needs a mistress, Phil.”
“Suppose I were to pull a long face and say: ‘Sue, Arbor Lodge needs a master’?” He drew off his cap and stuffed it into the front of his shirt, shook his head vigorously, so that the morning wind could catch at his hair, and rolled his sleeves up to his elbow, showing two stout arms as brown as the pony under him.
“I’m so homely,” said Sue, “that I’m marriage-proof.”
“Sue,”—very earnestly—“I didn’t see a single girl on the other side that I could fall in love with. I guess it’ll have to be an American that takes my mother’s place.”
Sue waved her whip. “Down with foreign alliances!”