"Turkish?" scoffed George Keets. "Nobody works up a shine like that by being washed only in one language! Russian, too, it must be! Flemish——"
"Flemish are rabbits," observed the May Girl gravely. But even with this observation she did not lift her eyes from her plate. Whether she was consciously and determmingly ignoring Claude Kennilworth's only too palpable efforts to impress her with the fact that now at last he was ready to forgive her and subjugate her, or whether she really hadn't noticed him, I couldn't quite make out. And then quite suddenly at the end of her first course she put down her knife and fork and folded her hands in her lap. "Where is Allan John?" she demanded.
"Why, yes, that's so! Where is Allan John!" questioned everybody all at once.
"Some walk he's taking," reflected Paul Brenswick.
"Not too long I hope," worried my Husband very faintly.
"Hang it all, I do like that lad," acknowledged George Keets.
"Who wouldn't?" said Young Kennilworth.
"Yes, but why?" demanded Keets.
"It's his eyes," said the Bride.
"Eyes nothing!" scoffed young Kennilworth. "It's the way he came out of his fuss without fussing! To make a fool of yourself but never a fuss—that's my idea of a fellow being a good sport!"