"Yes," I said calmly, for not until this moment had I guessed the truth. "Con amore," I repeated. "I could hardly have hoped, if Miss Marcia Van Wyck had not come to the neighborhood, that you would have done me the honor of a visit."
It was a random shot, but it struck home, for he reddened ever so slightly.
"How did you know? Who—who told you?" he stammered awkwardly.
"I think it must have been the cravat," I laughed.
"It was a good guess," he said rather sheepishly (I suppose because he hadn't said anything to me about her).
"She was tired of town. She's opening Briar Hills for a week or so. Awfully nice girl, Roger. You've got to meet her right away."
"I shall be delighted," I remarked.
"She knows all about you. Oh, she's clever. You'll like her. Reads pretty deep sort of stuff and can talk about anything."
"An intellectual attraction!" I commented. "Very interesting, and of course rare."
"Very. We don't agree, you know, on a lot of things. She's way beyond me in the modern philosophies. She's an artist, too—understands color and its uses and all that sort of thing. She's very fine, Roger, and good. Fond of nature. She wants to see my specimens. I'm going to have her over soon. We could have a little dinner, couldn't we? She has a companion, Miss Gore, sort of a poor relation. She's not very pretty, and doesn't like men, but she's cheerful when she's expected to be. You sha'n't care, shall you?"