“We must tell her,” said Ronald, examining his racket, minutely.
“I suppose we must,” agreed Billy, reluctantly. “We could not let her marry him.”
“Duffer! you don’t suppose he would dream of marrying her? He will come back, and tell her himself to-morrow. We must tell her, to spare her that interview. She need never see him again.”
“I say, Ron! Did you see her go quite pink when she told us his name? And in spite of the trouble to-day, she looks half a dozen years younger than when she went away. You know she does, old man!”
“Oh, that’s the rest-cure,” explained Ronnie, but without much conviction. “Rest-cures always have that effect. That’s why women go in for them. Did you ever hear of a man doing a rest-cure?”
“Well, I’ve heard of you, at Overdene,” said Billy, maliciously.
“Rot! You don’t call staying with the duchess a rest-cure? Good heavens, man! You get about the liveliest time of your life when her Grace of Meldrum undertakes to nurse you. Did you hear about old Pilberry the parson, and the toucan?”
“Yes, shut up. You’ve told me that unholy story twice already. I say, Ronnie! We are begging the question. Who’s to tell her?”
“You,” said Ronald decidedly. “She cares for you like a mother, and will take it more easily from you. Then I can step in, later on, with—er—manly comfort.”
“Confound you!” said Billy, highly indignant. “I’m not such a kid as you make out. But I’ll tell you this:—If I thought it would be for her real happiness, and could be pulled through, I would tell her I did it; then find Airth to-morrow and tell him I had told her so.”