As they stopped before the cabin, Jack Perot joined them, offering to take Camilla for a turn, but she said she was cold, and the three of them went inside to the burning log. Larry and Gretchen on the bench put a space between them rather suddenly.
"Don't move on our account, Larry," said Perot mischievously; "your silhouettes through the window were wonderful—quite touching—in fact."
"Jack!" said Gretchen, her face flaming, "you couldn't see——"
"No, as a matter of fact, we couldn't—because the shades are drawn"—the painter laughed immoderately—"but you know we might have."
"You're a very disagreeable person, and I don't like you at all," said Miss Janney. "I'll never let you do my portrait—never!"
"Ha! ha!" he cried in accents of Bowery melodrama. "At last, Geraldine, I have you in me cul-lutches. I'm desprit and starving! Next week I paint your portrait—or tell your father! Cha-oose, beautiful one!"
In the laugh which followed Larry joined good-naturedly. Indeed, there was nothing left to do—unless it was to wring the painter's neck. Instead of which, he wrung his hand and whispered, "I wish you would, Perot. It'll save me the trouble."
The rest of the crowd appeared after a while, and the steward brought hot Scotches, which detracted nothing from the gayety of the occasion.
"God made the country—man made the town," sighed Billy sententiously, holding the amber liquid to the firelight. "The simple pleasures—the healthy sports of our ancestors! Eh, Rita?"
"Oh, yes," with fine scorn, "quilting parties! No bridge, golf or tennis. Imagine a confirmed night owl like you, Billy, tucked safely in bed at nine."