"Truth is, Miss Persis," exclaimed the goaded lad, "it isn't what you'd call convenient for us to take you along this evening."
"Thad!" cried Diantha in accents of unutterable reproach.
"Well, I don't mean to be impolite, but it's not convenient and you know it."
"Thad West, Miss Persis is just about my dearest friend in Clematis. And if you think I'm going to leave her here alone ten miles from home, with an automobile that won't go—and getting dark—and a lame knee—"
"Well, of course if you feel that way about it," returned the unhappy young man, "there's nothing more to be said. But you know yourself—"
"I guess I'd better light my lamps before I leave," remarked Persis briskly. She attended to that little matter and hobbled toward the buggy. Thad alighted and assisted her to climb in with so poor a grace as to make her suspicions an absolute certainty.
"Now, children," Persis settled herself and slipping an arm deftly behind Thad's back, she took Diantha's slim hand in hers, "I never was one to be a kill-joy. You drive round as long as you feel like it and don't mind me, no more'n if I was a coach dog running on behind."
"Thad!" exclaimed Diantha in peremptory fashion. "I'm going to tell her."
"Just as you think best," replied young Mr. West, who bade fair to find this a convenient stock phrase.
Diantha's hand gave that of Persis a tremulous pressure, suggestive of fluttering nerves. "Miss Persis," she said in a thrilling half-whisper, "we're going to be married, Thad and I."