"My two best men!" sighed Mrs. Penfield, her eyes upon the shrubbery, where nothing now was to be seen.
"Yes," acquiesced her friend, "but think how badly that last Ceylon turned out."
Meanwhile, the three had found a cool retreat, an arbour sheltered from the sun and open to the air, wherein a rustic garden seat, a table and a chair extended cordial invitations.
"Ah, this is just the place!" cried Archer Ferris. "By shoving this seat along a trifle, and putting this chair here, we can be very comfortable."
It was noticeable that Mr. Ferris retained possession of the chair. As for the vacant place beside her on the bench, Mabel's parasol lay upon it. Mr. Ferris beamed as only the arrived can beam.
"With your permission, I will take the table," said Mr. Hopworthy, looking to Miss Dunbar, who smiled. Mr. Ferris became overcast.
"I fear our conversation may not interest you," he told the other man. "You know, you do not write short stories."
And this was not the first time in the last half hour that Mr. Ferris had offered Mr. Hopworthy an opportunity to withdraw. The latter smiled, a broad, expansive smile.
"Oh, but I read them," he persisted, perching on the table. "That is," he added, "when there is plot enough to keep one awake."