“Of course; no one but your own sapient self could know her. How long is it since you have seen her?”
“A week.”
“No longer than that? Suffering humanity! You didn’t lose any time on the way down, did you? Are you far enough out to transplant a few little cuttings of advice?”
Antrim nodded, and then qualified the nod. “I guess so; anyway, you have earned the right to tell me what I ought to do.”
“Bueno; and this is what you are to do: Go over to Hollywood this evening, just as if nothing had happened. Keep your wits about you, and see if Isabel isn’t quite as glad to see you as you are to see her.”
But Antrim’s mood was not optimistic. “I know; that is the way it looks to you. But, you see, I have known her all her life, and——”
“And therefore you think you know it all. But you don’t. I have seen a good bit of the Langfords in the last few weeks, and if you haven’t a mortgage on the future of the younger daughter, no one else has.”
Now it is one of the peculiarities of jealousy that it will come alive again and again long after there is reason to believe that it has been effectually killed. Antrim stole a swift side glance at his mentor, and there was a fine-lined frown between his level brows.
“I wish I were as sure of that as you seem to be.”
Brant looked up quickly. “Now, what fresh idiocy is this? You know well enough that however little she may seem to care for you, she doesn’t care anything for any one else.”