"Where's Miss Grimshaw?" asked French, following the other to the house. "Did you leave her in the village."
"No, I left her by the bridge—I mean on the bridge, down by the river."
French followed the young man into his bedroom. Bobby Dashwood, who seemed like a sleeper half-awakened from a horrible nightmare, pulled a kit-bag from the corner of the room and began stuffing it with clothes.
French took his seat on a chair and puffed his cigar.
"Botheration!" said French, who saw love's despair in the erratic movements of his companion. "Botheration! See here, Dashwood."
"Yes—oh, what!"
"Don't go getting in a flurry over nothing."
"Nothing!" said Mr. Dashwood with a hollow laugh, stuffing socks and hairbrushes into the yawning bag.
"When you've been through the mill as often as I have," said French, "you'll know what I mean. There never was a girl made but there wasn't as good a one made to match her."