"You're a cheerful hypocrite, all right. Here, catch, baseballist!"
Gerard retreated a step and deftly caught the dripping missile as it hurtled across the garage.
"You ought to wring out your league sponges," he reproved. "Thanks; I was wondering how I could take this face into the house, unless I got Rupert to turn the hose on me. You see, I might meet some one."
"You'd meet Flavia," Corrie declared, busying himself with his own ablutions. "She's out there in the flowing arbor, sewing some gimcrack thing and pretending she hasn't been worrying because I was out on the course. She comes downstairs every morning to see me start—you know that—and then sits around all day watching until I come in again. None of that for Isabel; she's a sport."
Gerard shook the water from his thick hair and finished the perfunctory toilet without replying. But as he passed Rupert, he dropped a light hand on the mechanician's shoulder.
"When you marry, Jack Rupert, will the girl be a sport?" he questioned.
"My wedding cards ain't paining me bad just now."
"Well, but suppose the case."
The black eyes lifted for a moment from the task in hand.
"I guess I'd be sport enough for one house," Rupert impassively pronounced. "I hate a crowd."