“Why—er—she’s charming—pretty—and clever,” he exclaimed, brightening.
“She’s more than that,” she declared. “Gladys is a trump. She’s been a good friend to me. We became widows about the same time. Her husband died in California, you know.”
“Yes, she told me.”
“Then there’s Billy Bowles—fat, jolly Billy Bowles—mighty good company, Jack.”
“Well, what of it?”
“And Johnny Richards. Did you ever see Johnny in a bad humor? I never did.”
“Rose, what are you driving at?”
“I was only thinking they’d make a splendid trio on the Seamaid. We could run first to Bermuda—then just to any old place we thought of. I’m sick of New York.”
He looked at her, his whole face alight.
“Rose!” he cried. “You’re the best—” He bent over her, his black eyes gleaming. “Rose, I want to— Ah! what’s the use of trying to thank you.”