The Colonel had for some time cherished a secret hope. It was one of the subjects of mutual agreement which had made it easier for him and Allen to bury the hatchet. The latter had told him of Rion Gracey’s continued visits to the cottage throughout the summer, and both men had agreed that no woman could find a better husband than the younger of the Gracey boys.
June’s conscious air was encouraging, but her words were aggravatingly non-committal.
“Oh, yes,” she said, “we saw Mr. Gracey often. He was always coming into Foleys to buy supplies for the Buckeye Belle.”
At that moment Barclay, who had turned away from his companions, saw her, and with a start of recognition followed by a smile of undisguised pleasure, hurried toward her. The Colonel rose with some reluctance. He was surprised and not entirely pleased at the open delight of the young man’s countenance, the confident friendliness of his greeting. He gave up his chair, however, and as he crossed the room to one of his elderly cronies, he saw that Mrs. Newbury was watching Jerry Barclay and June with a slight, lazy smile and attentive eyes.
“I came here to-night solely to see you,” said the young man, as soon as the Colonel was out of earshot.
“But how did you know I was here?” asked the innocent June. “I never told you.”
“No, you naughty girl, you never did. But I heard it.”
“Little birds?” she queried, tilting up her chin and looking at him out of the ends of her eyes.
“Little birds,” he acquiesced. “And why didn’t you let me know? Don’t I remember your making me a solemn promise at Foleys to tell me the first thing if you ever came to San Francisco? You were doubtful then if you ever would.”
“Yes, I think you do,” she agreed. “That is, if you’ve got a good memory.”