"He is something much better—he is my friend."
Her hammock was swung diagonally across the quiet corner, and she arranged her pillows so that the shadow of a spreading potted palm came between her eyes and the nearest electric globe.
"Am I not your friend, too?" she asked.
Jerry Blacklock and the younger Miss Cantrell were pacing a slow sentry march up and down the open space in front of the lounging-chairs; and Ballard waited until they had made the turn and were safely out of ear-shot before he said: "There are times when I have to admit it, reluctantly."
"How ridiculous!" she scoffed. "What is finer than true friendship?"
"Love," he said simply.
"Cousin Janet will hear you," she warned. Then she mocked him, as was her custom. "Does that mean that you would like to have me tell you about Mr. Wingfield?"
He played trumps again.
"Yes. When is it to be?"
"How crudely elemental you are to-night! Suppose you ask him?"