"Well, that's what I tell him," said the novelist. "But he isn't at all sure he wants to go!"
As John merely gave Martie an unmistakable look at this, she tried hurriedly for a careless answer.
"John, you would be mad not to go!"
"You and I will talk it over after awhile," he suggested, with an enigmatic smile.
This was terrible. Martie gave one startled look at Lydia, who had compressed her mouth into a thin line of disapproval. Lydia was obviously thinking of Cliff, who might come in later. Martie found herself unable to think of Cliff.
They had coffee in the garden, in the still summer dusk. Teddy rioted among the bushes, as alert and strategic as was his gray kitten. John sat silent beside Martie, and whenever she glanced at him she met his deep smile. Lydia preserved a forbidding silence, but Malcolm's suspicions of his younger daughter were pleasantly diverted by the novelist. Dean Silver was probing into the early history of the State.
"But there must have been silver and gold mines up as far as this, then; aren't you in the gold belt?"
"In the year 1858," Malcolm began carefully, "a company was formed here for the purpose of investigating the claims made by—"
John finished his coffee with a gulp, and walked across the dim grass to Martie, and she rose without a word.
"Martie, isn't it Teddy's bedtime?" asked Lydia. John frowned faintly at her.