Croyden made no reply. It was not necessary. On the opposite side of the street, Miss Carrington—in a tailored gown of blue broadcloth, close fitting and short in the skirt, with a velvet toque to match—was swinging briskly back from town.
Macloud watched her a moment in silence.
“The old man is done for, at last!” Croyden thought.
“Isn’t she a corker!” Macloud broke out. “Look at the poise of the head, and ease of carriage, and the way she puts down her feet!—that’s the way to tell a woman. God! Croyden, she’s thoroughbred!”
“You better go over,” said his friend. “It’s about the tea hour, she’ll brew you a cup.”
“And I’ll drink it—as much as she will give me. I despise the stuff, but I’ll drink it!”
“She’ll put rum in it, if you prefer!” laughed Croyden; “or make you a high ball, or you can have it straight—just as you want.”
“Come along!” exclaimed Macloud. “We’re wasting time.”
“I’ll be over, presently,” Croyden replied. “I don’t want any tea, you know.”
“Good!” Macloud answered, from the hallway. “Come along, as soon as you wish—but don’t come too soon.”