Left to himself—one of his selves—Raymond resorted to sentiment.
"Of course we both know—under what might be—what is. She's like Kipling's girl in the Brushwood Boy."
But that did not take in the Other Self in the least. It laughed.
When July came the heat settled down in earnest on the panting city.
"Aren't you going to take any vacation?" asked Raymond. He and Joan were sauntering up Fifth Avenue to a certain haven in a backyard where the fountain played and the birds sang.
"No. I'm going to stay in town and let Miss Gordon have her outing. The Brier Bush is too young to be left alone this year. Next year it will be my turn."
"I'm afraid you'll wilt," Raymond looked at the blooming creature beside him. "Funny, isn't it, how things turn out? I expected to go in August to—to that lady with whom you first saw me" (Joan looked divinely innocent); "but only yesterday she informed me that she had resolved to go abroad, and asked if it would make any difference to me. She's like that. Her procedure resembles jumping off a diving plank."
"Well, does it make any difference?" Joan asked.
"You bet it does! It makes me free to stay in town."
"I'm afraid you'll wilt," Joan twinkled.