“Yes. ‘Paris is a very large place, you know,’” mocked Lucile.
“Take it all back, take it all back!” cried Phil, overwhelmed. “I’ll admit you’re the greatest sleuth outside of Sherlock, Lucy. Hands up and spare my life!”
The girls laughed with the joy of the victorious and Evelyn was about to speak, when Phil called out suddenly:
“Jack Turnbull, by all that’s lucky! What brought you here?” And he fairly flung himself out of the stopping machine.
They had come upon the inn suddenly over the rise in the ground and there, standing against the pillar and nonchalantly surveying the scenery was—Lucile had to rub her eyes to be sure of unimpaired vision.
Then, the machine coming to a full stop, the two girls stepped out, while Lucile followed more slowly in their 165 wake, conscious suddenly of dust-stained clothing and rumpled hair. “And I wanted to look my best,” she wailed, in truly feminine despair.
She had not much time for lamentation, for, through the handshakings of Phil and the ecstatic demonstrations of his cousin, Jack’s handsome eyes sought and found hers.
“It’s a long way to come just to see you,” he cried, gripping her hands tightly. “But it’s sure worth it,” he added, boyishly.
Lucile never had longed so for a mirror. She knew her hair was all awry, that her dress was wrinkled and covered with dust, and that her eyes must look funny from crying over Jeanette, and——
“I’m very glad to—to see you,” she stammered. “If you will—excuse me just—a minute—I’ll change this awful rig—and—and——” She flashed him an uncertain little smile and was gone through the broad doorway, leaving him to gaze after her, mystified and troubled.