“No, I haven’t swallowed it,” she answered. “I’ve done worse.”
“Worse? What could be worse?”
“I slipped it into his waistcoat pocket.”
“Whose? The hammer-thrower? No? By jove!—”
“I did it when I tripped. And I tripped purposely, and when he was very gallant and kept me from falling, I—I slipped it in. And isn’t it awful? Poor man! He’s such a goody-good. You don’t mind, do you?” Anxiously.
“Oh, I mind a heap,” said Bob jovially. “Ho! ho!”
“I was afraid you might scold.”
“Scold? No, indeed. I’m awfully obliged and I only wish I could do something for you to show how thankful I am.”
“Do you? Then you might—” She gazed toward the conservatory where it was dim and shadowy. “No; it wouldn’t do. We’re not engaged any more. Besides—” And she looked toward a straight proud figure with golden hair. She didn’t finish what she was going to say. Only—“I guess I won’t make you,” she added.
“Thanks,” said Bob. “You’re sure the best pal a chap ever had. But honest! I hate to be mean and disappoint you after all you’ve done. And I might volunteer, if you’d make it just one—or, at the most, two.”