"But he isn't," she insisted, playfully. Bromley was out and at work, Wingfield had entirely recovered from the effects of his electric shock, and there had been no untoward happenings for three peaceful weeks. Wherefore there was occasion for light-heartedness.
Ballard descended from the bungalow porch and arbitrarily stopped the buzzing engines of the runabout by cutting out the batteries. "This is the first time I've seen you for three weeks," he asserted—which was a lover's exaggeration. "Please come up and sit on the porch. There is any number of things I want to say."
"Where is Mr. Bromley?" she asked, making no move to leave the driving-seat.
"He is out on the ditch survey—luckily for me. Won't you please 'light and come in?—as we say back in the Blue-grass."
"You don't deserve it. You haven't been near us since Mr. Bromley went back to work. Why?"
"I have been exceedingly busy; we are coming down the home-stretch on our job here, as you know." The commonplace excuse was the only one available. He could not tell her that it was impossible for him to accept further hospitalities at Castle 'Cadia.
"Mr. Bromley hasn't been too busy," she suggested.
"Bromley owes all of you a very great debt of gratitude."
"And you do not, you would say. That is quite true. You owe us nothing but uncompromising antagonism—hatred, if you choose to carry it to that extreme."
"No," he returned gravely. "I can't think of you and of enmity at the same moment."