"But, I have no chance, you know," said the other, boyishly.
"Prefers another?"
"Don't know; I haven't had the courage to ask. She thinks I'm a nice boy and such good company. Girls don't say those things about the fellow they care for seriously. I'd rather be anything than a nice boy."
"Is that her photograph?"
"Yes. Isn't she a dream?"
The owner of the den passed the portrait to his guest. Converse was surprised to see him start violently and then pass his hand over his eyes as if brushing away some form of doubt.
"This is—this is Miss Wood?" asked Sherrod at last.
"Do you know her? If you do, you can't wonder that I'm hard hit," cried the other.
"I met her once down near my old home. One doesn't forget a face like hers. So I find her, after all, and the sweetheart of my best friend," Jud was saying, hazily.
"Oh, no! Don't put it that way. She'd fall dead if any one suddenly intimated that such a relationship existed—keel over with surprise. But have you never seen her more than once?"