THE BRINK OF HAZARD
The summer night was perfect, and the after-dinner gathering under the great portico became rather a dispersal. The company fell apart into couples and groups when the coffee was served; and while Miss Craigmiles and the playwright were still fraying the worn threads of the dramatic unities, Ballard consoled himself with the older of the Cantrell girls, talking commonplace nothings until his heart ached.
Later on, when young Bigelow had relieved him, and he had given up all hope of breaking into the dramatic duet, he rose to go and make his parting acknowledgments to Miss Cauffrey and the colonel. It was at that moment that Miss Elsa confronted him.
"You are not leaving?" she said. "The evening is still young—even for country folk."
"Measuring by the hours I've been neglected, the evening is old, very old," he retorted reproachfully.
"Which is another way of saying that we have bored you until you are sleepy?" she countered. "But you mustn't go yet—I want to talk to you." And she wheeled a great wicker lounging-chair into a quiet corner, and beat up the pillows in a near-by hammock, and bade him smoke his pipe if he preferred it to the Castle 'Cadia cigars.
"I don't care to smoke anything if you will stay and talk to me," he said, love quickly blotting out the disappointments foregone.
"For this one time you may have both—your pipe and me. Are you obliged to go back to your camp to-night?"
"Yes, indeed. I ran away, as it was. Bromley will have it in for me for dodging him this way."
"Is Mr. Bromley your boss?"