"I shall look forward to the next time," said young Kennedy, with rather more ardor than conventional courtesy required. "This is our third meeting, I believe."
"Third?" exclaimed Peggy, pricking up her ears. "Why, when was the second?"
"At one of the football games last fall," explained Priscilla. "I was there with Horace Hitchcock, and Mr. Kennedy sat next me." And then recalling the suspicious glances Horace had shot in the direction of the guiltless Mr. Kennedy, Priscilla began to blush. The worst of blushing is that it is much easier to start it than to call a halt. There were innumerable things connected with the thought of Horace that made Priscilla uncomfortable, and now she found herself blushing for them all. The tide of color flooded her smooth forehead and dyed her throat. Peggy's observant eyes detected an unmistakable shadow on Mr. Kennedy's erst-while radiant face.
Later, when Graham and herself were alone, she scolded him a little. "You oughtn't to have said that a friend of mine had a case on Hitchcock. Now Mr. Kennedy knows you meant Priscilla."
"Well, is that such a tragedy?"
"Couldn't you mention to him some day that Horace did admire Priscilla, but that now he's safely married to another. You could bring it in in a casual way, you know."
Graham looked at her hard. "My dear Peggy," he said, "Just because you yourself have been fortunate—unusually fortunate I might say—in your love affairs, don't let that lead you into trying your hand at matchmaking. Fooling with high explosives is child's play compared to that, believe me."
But instead of seeming impressed by the warning, Peggy only answered dreamily, "When he doesn't see Horace at the wedding, he'll probably begin to suspect that it's ancient history. If only Priscilla could learn to speak of him without blushing."