“Surely, then, I may do something better with it than sell it.”
“There, we will not argue, I am too wise to oppose a man who is laboring under the temporary insanity of a love affair. I had feared that you were not so level-headed as is your wont. Come, who is the woman? Is it the Southern girl at the Stanhope’s?”
“Of whom do you speak?” asked Robert, looking pale and annoyed.
“Of Miss Bell—Cherokee Bell—to be sure.”
“You honor me with superior judgment to so accuse, whether it be true or not,” and upon Milburn’s face there was that expression which tells of what is beyond.
The other smiled meaningly, and raised his brows.
“Ah, my dear boy,” he mutely commented, “I am sorry my supposition is true, but it leaves me wiser, and no transparent scheming goes.”
“Tell me your opinion of her, Milburn, I am interested deeply.”
“Well, I have always said she was positively refreshing,” began Robert. “She came upon us to recall a bright world. She came as a revelation to some, a reminiscence to others, and caused our social Sahara to blossom with a suddenly enriched oasis.”