“I thought you’d given it up. Her name, please.”
Mr. Van Duyn refused to reply.
“It’s the Loring girl, isn’t it?” Worthington queried cheerfully. “I thought so. You lucky devil!” He touched the tips of two fingers and thumb to his lips, and with eyes heavenward laid them upon his heart. “She’s an angel, a blue-eyed angel, fresh from the rosy aura of a cherubim. Oh, Coley, what the devil can she see in you?”
“Don’t be an ass, Bibby,” Van Duyn grunted wrathfully.
“I’m not an ass. I’m in love, you amatory Behemoth, in love as I’ve never been before—with an angel fresh from Elysium.”
“Meaning Miss Jane Loring?”
“Who else? There’s no one else,” dolefully. “There never has been any one else—there never will be any one else. You’re in love with her, too; aren’t you, Coley?”
“Well, of all the impudence!”
“Nonsense. I’m only living up to the traditions of our ancient friendship. I’m giving you a fair warning. I intend to marry the lady myself.”
The visitor had lit a cigarette and was calmly helping himself to whisky. Van Duyn threw back his head and roared with laughter.