"His pants? What about his pants?"
This time Courtney joined in the laugh.
After supper he sat on the front porch with the Pollocks and Miss Grady. It was a warm, starry night. Charlie Webster and Doc Simpson had strolled off down the street. Mr. Hatch and Miss Miller sat in the parlour.
"She's going to land Furman Hatch, sure as you're a foot high," confided Mr. Pollock, with a significant jerk of his head in the direction of the parlour.
"Heaven knows she's been trying long enough," said Miss Grady. "I heard him ask Doc and Charlie to wait for him, but she nabbed him before he could get out. Now he's got to sit in there and listen to her tell about how interested she is in art,—and him just dyin' for a smoke. Why, there's Alix Crown now. She's comin' in here."
A big touring car drew up to the sidewalk in front of the Tavern. Miss Crown sprang lightly out of the seat beside the chauffeur and came up the steps.
"How do you do, Mrs. Pollock? Hello, Flora. Good evening, Mr. Editor," was her cheery greeting as she passed by and entered the house.
"She comes around every once in a while and takes the Dowd girls out riding in her car," explained Mrs. Pollock.
"Mighty nice of her," said Mr. Pollock, taking his feet down from the porch-rail and carefully brushing the cigar ashes off of his coat sleeve. "Takes old Alaska Spigg out too, and the Nicholses, and—"
"We've been out with her a great many times," broke in Mrs. Pollock. "I think a Packard is a wonderful car, don't you, Mr. Thane? So smooth and—"