Jim Sargent came to the door of the study, in which he was closeted with the Reverend Smith Boyd. Jim was practically the young rector’s business guardian.
“Hello, folks,” he nodded. “Gail home?”
“Not yet,” responded Mrs. Sargent, in whose brow the creases were becoming fixed.
“It’s hardly time,” estimated Jim, and went back in the study.
“Ted has a new divinity,” boasted the wife of that agreeable young man.
“Had, you mean,” corrected Ted. “She’s deserted me for a single man.”
“Is it the Piccadilly widow?” inquired Arly, punching another pillow under her elbow.
“Certainly,” corroborated Ted. “You don’t suppose I have a new one every day.”
“You’re losing your power of fascination then,” retorted Arly. “Lucile’s still in the running with two a day.”
“She should have her kind by the dozen,” responded Ted, complacently stroking his glossy moustache.