“No. I’ve planned an early canter for to-morrow.”
He leaned forward. “Am I included?” he asked.
She regarded him critically, and reflected that he looked pale. “Would you like to go—this afternoon and to-morrow, too?”
“I’d like to go,” he declared. “There’s Wheaton Hill, too; we haven’t been there yet. And those collies of Bob’s—if we don’t watch out they’ll be grown dogs before we see ’em.”
She hesitated a little. Then, “I wouldn’t care to have Genevieve think,” she began, “that I’d stayed away from the Carltons’, and that you stayed away, too, and that we——”
“May I come?” he persisted, and rose.
Again she looked at him critically. His manner was not cheerless—yet what pain might not be hidden by bravado? “Yes, come,” she said.
Looking down at her, he saw that her eyes were full of pity and sympathy and tender appeal—yes, and tears. He came to stand in front of her. “Do you know,” he said, “I think Genevieve is an epidemic. We’ve all had it, by Jove, just as if it were contagious. But, luckily, it’s not incurable.”
“Let’s not criticise her, Phil.”
He smiled and shook his head. “You’ve got the disease worse than anybody,” he declared. He swept one arm about the room, pointing—to the picture of Genevieve on the mantle; to the two pictures of Genevieve on the writing-desk; to the panel between the two bookcases, where Genevieve was feeding the fawn. “One, two, three, four,” he counted. Then he looked at the round gold locket hanging between the lapels of her coat. “And I’ll bet a pony that there’s a picture of Genevieve in that locket,” he added.