“We all thought they was sure to get married,” said Miss Biggs, and added in a low voice, “Some of us thought maybe they was married already.”
“And just what made you think that?”
Miss Biggs moved restlessly in her chair. “Oh, nothing special, I guess; only they seemed so awfully gone on each other, and Pat was always hiring flivvers to take her off to Redfield and—and places. They never went much with the crowd any more, and lots of people were getting married then—you know, war marriages——” The soft, hesitant voice trailed off into silence.
“I see. Just what was Mr. Ives’s reputation with your crowd, Miss Biggs? Was he a steady, hard-working young man?”
“He wasn’t so awfully hard-working, I guess.”
The distressed murmur was not too low to reach Patrick Ives’s ears, evidently; for a brief moment his white face was lit with the gayest of smiles, impish and endearing. It faded, and the eyes that had been suddenly blue faded, too, back to their frozen gray.
“Was he popular?”
“Oh, everyone liked him fine,” said Miss Biggs eagerly. “He was the most popular fellow in Rosemont, I guess. He was a swell dancer, and he certainly could play on the ukulele and skate and do perfectly killing imitations and—and everything.”
“Then why did you warn your friend against consorting with this paragon, Miss Biggs?”
“Sir?”