“Yes, she would,” declared Mr. St. Ives. “Her visit at The Lilacs is up pretty soon. Where’ll she go next?”
“Here,” said Sue quietly, “—if anyone is speaking unkindly of her.”
“That’s lucky for her,” went on Mr. Graves. “Your hospitality isn’t to be sneezed at by a girl who likes to spend all of her income on her duds.”
Sue rose. “Really,” she said, “I can’t listen any longer. Genevieve is the handsomest girl in the State of New York. She’s a darling to boot. And you gentlemen”—this with studied candor—“would have less to say if each and every one of you had not been given your—your——”
“Mitten?” suggested Mr. St. Ives politely.
“—Last year,” concluded Sue. “I’m sorry I’ve listened to a single unkind thing about her. I insist that you talk of something else while you remain.”
“We’d better go, then,” said Mr. Hammond, his face eloquent of woe. “We came to talk about just that, you see. There isn’t a dashier player, or a stronger hitter, or a better shot at goal in Westchester County. Of course, there’s Tommy Watts. He could sub. But none of us want Tommy, he’s so wild with that whippy stick of his. Oh, why—why——”
“I haven’t seen Phil for nearly two weeks,” said Sue. “Grandmamma has been quite ill.”
“How is Mrs. Townsend?” inquired Mr. St. Ives. “Pardon our forgetting to ask. We’re so confounded worried——”
“Phil’s happiness must come before polo,” went on Sue very decidedly. “Surely you didn’t think that I would conspire against him.”