"I'm sure I don't know," said Barbara patiently. "But I think the Blizzard episode--as you call it--is rather a permanent friendship. I find reasons to like him, and to admire him."
Wilmot made no comment. He longed to speak evil of Blizzard, but the fact of his financial obligation to the man kept him silent. He contented himself with saying: "I'm glad that I haven't your artistic judgment of character. One of these days you will learn, to your cost, that men's judgment of a man is usually correct."
"I wish he had legs," said Barbara. "I'd like to do Prometheus bound to the rock."
Wilmot's disgust was intense. "Do you mean to say--" he began, and then checked himself. "Why not have your father graft a pair on him? He's succeeded, by all accounts, in doing so for all sorts of beasts."
"Do you know," said Barbara sweetly, "that is just what my father would try to do for Mr. Blizzard if some interested person would only step forward and supply the legs."
"I dare say Blizzard would find a pair quickly enough, if he thought they could be attached."
"But how could he?"
"Oh, I'm just joking, Miss Innocence. But, seriously, he could buy a pair for a price. You can buy anything in this world--except love,"
Blizzard, sitting in the sun on the steps of 17 McBurney Place, watched the pair approaching in the runabout, noted as they drew near the affectionate seriousness of their attitude toward each other--for they had stopped talking of him and returned to themselves--and his whole being burned suddenly with a rage of jealousy. Controlling the expression of his face, he rose upon his crutches and descended the steps to greet Barbara at the curb.
"Glad to see you!" said she. "And how about Wednesday night for the party? Mr. Allen is coming, and I have asked three or four other people."