"Bravo, Cora," he patted her hands softly; "wise Cora. You are a credit to your friends, indeed you are, my blonde beauty."
She laughed softly;—a kittenish, purring laugh.
"Well, Lucian, time flies and I throw myself on your mercy. Recommend me to some nice quiet retreat, not too far from the city, but at a safe distance; put me in a carriage, at daylight, which will carry me out to some by-station, where I can take passage behind the iron horse, unmolested, for fresh fields and pastures new."
Davlin pondered a moment as if he had not already decided upon his course of action. He knew the woman he had to deal with, and shaped his words accordingly. "A retired spot,—let me see. I wonder, by Jove,"—brightening suddenly, "I think I have the right thing for you."
"Well, when Lucian Davlin 'thinks' he has a point, that point is gained; proceed, man of might."
"You see," began Lucian, in a business-like tone, "I took one of my 'skips' for change of scene and recreation."
"And safe quarters until the wind shifted," interrupted she. "Well, go on."
He laughed softly, "Even so. We children of chance do need to take flying trips sometimes, but I did not set out for Europe, Cora mine, and I wore my own clothes home."
"Bravo! But old Verage don't want you, and the wind has changed; proceed."
"Well, as usual, I found myself in luck, and if I had been a nice young widow, might have taken Summer quarters in the snug little village of Bellair."