“And you’re not going to deny Archie Wingfield?” Ralston tried to see her eyes. “I’m sure he’s offered himself.”
Katharine said nothing, but John saw through her veil and was sure that a little colour rose in her face.
“Of course!” he said. “That’s two of them. And Crowdie’s three. I count him. And you mustn’t forget me. I’m what they call in love with you, I suppose. That’s four.”
Katharine smiled, and glanced at him, looking away again immediately.
“At least,” she said, “you’ll leave me dear old Mr. Griggs—”
“Griggs!” laughed Ralston. “He’s the worst of the lot. He’s madly, fearfully, desperately, fantastically in love with you.”
“Jack! What do you mean?” Katharine laughed, but her face expressed genuine surprise. “Not that I should mind,” she added. “Dear old man! I’m so fond of him!”
“Well—he returns your fondness with interest. He makes no secret of it to anybody, because he’s old, or says he is,—but he’s old like an old wolf. I like him, too. He goes about saying that you’re his ideal of beauty and cleverness and soul—and good taste. Oh, Griggs!” He laughed again. “He’s quite off his head about you! He’ll put you into one of his books if you’re not careful. I should like to see your father’s expression if he did.”
“Don’t be a goose, Jack!” suggested Katharine, by way of good advice. “Of course, I understand what a dear old silly idiot you are, you know. But don’t talk such nonsense to other people. They’ll laugh at you.”
“No, I’m not going to. I let Griggs do the talking, and people laugh at him. But there’s nothing silly in it, as a matter of fact. Everybody loves you—except some of the people who should. And I must say, with the exception of Crowdie, we were a very presentable lot the other night. And even Crowdie—well, he’s a celebrity, if he’s nothing else, and that counts for something with some women. I say, Katharine—are you and Hester going to quarrel for the rest of your lives?”