“It depends.”
“Upon Nora?” persistently.
“The weather.”
“You are hopeless.”
“No; on the contrary, I am the most optimistic man in the world.”
She looked into this reply very carefully. If he had hopes of winning Nora Harrigan, optimistic he certainly must be. Perhaps it was not optimism. Rather might it not be a purpose made of steel, bendable but not breakable, reinforced by a knowledge of conditions which she would have given worlds to learn?
“Is she not beautiful?”
“I am not a poet.”
“Wait a moment,” her eyes widening. “I believe you know who did commit that outrage.”
For the first time he frowned.