"Why, I suppose so," he answered vaguely. "I've read about women like that, in stories, but I never ran up against any men—"
Dorothy rose, with a silvery laugh.
"Oh, it was a passing fancy; never mind. Now look here, Jimmy Wren! You brace up and forget this. It's our secret, understand? If any more handsome widows from Kentucky show up on the horizon, let me know and I'll throw a party at a hotel up in the forties where there are loads of Kentucky people—and you'll see fireworks! Now, forget it."
"All right, I promise." Jimmy Wren forced a rueful grin. "Now, about the Christmas present for Reese—"
"Go get the wraps, please. I'll wait here."
Dorothy smiled to herself after Wren's departing figure, and this time her smile was not forced.
"Poor Jimmy!" she murmured. "He's not so badly hurt as he thinks he is; he'll forget all about it in a week. Macgowan and this Harry Lorenz and Viola Bland—hm! I don't like it. Maybe I'm all wrong, of course, but I don't like it. Now, why would Macgowan want to get poor Jimmy Wren in that crowd, I wonder? If only I could reason it out! I'd give a good deal to learn just how well Lawrence Macgowan knows Viola, and how long he's known her! I hope she will ring me up some day."
She never did. But she rang up Jimmy Wren about a little musicale; and Jimmy, having his full share of unspoiled human nature, did not refuse the invitation. His boyishness rather resented Dorothy's severe judgment of the other woman; after all, he considered, the world judges harshly, without knowing everything!
And he was gradually confirmed in this opinion. He did not consider it necessary to bring up the matter again with Dorothy, however.