“Yes, and Garry's here, too. Come down.”
The patter of little feet grew louder, then the swish of silken skirts, and with a spring she was beside them.
“No, don't you say a word, Garry. I'm not going to listen and I won't forgive you no matter what you say.” She had both of his hands now.
“Ah, but you don't know, Miss Corinne. Has Jack told you?”
“Yes, told me everything; that you had a big supper and everybody stamped around the room; that Mr. Morris gave you a ring, or something” (Garry held up his finger, but she wasn't ready to examine it yet), “and that some of the men wanted to celebrate it, and that you went to the club and stayed there goodness knows how long—all night, so Mollie Crane told me. Paul, her brother, was there—and you never thought a word about your promise to me” (this came with a little pout, her chin uplifted, her lips quite near his face), “and we didn't have half men enough and our cotillion was all spoiled. I don't care—we had a lovely time, even if you two men did behave disgracefully. No—I don't want to listen to a thing. I didn't come down to see either of you.” (She had watched them both from her window as they crossed the street.) “What I want to know, Jack, is, who is Miss Felicia Grayson?”
“Why, Mr. Grayson's sister,” burst out Jack—“the old gentleman who came to see me.”
“That old fellow!”
“Yes, that old fellow—the most charming—”
“Not that remnant!” interrupted Garry.
“No, Garry—not that kind of a man at all, but a most delightful old gentleman by the name of Mr. Grayson,” and Jack's eyes flashed. “He told me his sister was coming to town. What do you know about her, Corinne?” He was all excitement: Peter was to send for him when his sister arrived.