"Howard?"—her eyes brimmed suddenly with sunshine; "oh, Howard doesn't belong on the same bench with the chubby Childses! He thinks,—and he entirely agrees with me."
"Which proves that he thinks?"
She saw the malice of his question, and rather sharply drew her hand from his.
"When is he coming home?" Weston asked.
"November," she said, shortly, and gave a flake of lichen a vicious jab that tossed it out into the water.
"How's he getting along with his shells?"
"All right, I guess. I don't hear from him very often. He's left the region of mails. I've sent him a good many pamphlets and an abstract of a paper I'm writing for the annual meeting of the league. One of these days he'll stop puddling round with shells and do something, I hope. I won't let up on him till he does."
"Merely being a fairly decent fellow isn't enough for you?"
"Not nearly enough!"