“For myself, I favour number five,” continued her father, enjoying himself very much, and Arly Fosland made up her mind that she was going to feel very homelike in the Sargent house, at dinner times. “Number five is—”
“Miles!” and Mrs. Sargent put her hand comfortingly on Gail’s knee, while she turned reproachful eyes on her husband.
“Why, Judith,” protested Mrs. Sargent’s husband, in mock surprise; “number five—”
“Dad, I’ll jump out of this car!”
“—is the Reverend Smith Boyd, of Market Square Church, the wealthiest and most fashionable congregation in the world. Number six—Mrs. Fosland, I couldn’t make out number six very well. I suppose you know him.”
Arly shrieked.
“I can tell you all about them,” she volunteered, judging that this was perhaps the best way to relieve Gail’s embarrassment. “Number one, the gentleman who sent the flowers, is a good-looking bachelor of forty-five, whose specialty is in making big street car companies out of little ones, and Gail hadn’t been in New York a week, when he took the first vacation he’s had in ten years. He’ll probably go back to work to-morrow morning. He was the hero of the wreck.”
“No doubt a good provider,” commented Mr. Sargent, gravely checking off number one.
Even Mrs. Sargent was smiling now, but Gail was looking interestedly at the old familiar street, and marvelling that it had changed so little. It seemed impossible that she had only been gone a few weeks. She was particularly not hearing the flippant conversation in the car.
“Number two is Dick Rodley,” enumerated Arly, remembering vividly the grouping of the nine slaves. “He’s the handsomest man in the world!”