"Your friends are very nice," she began with a certain diffidence, as her cousin had nothing to say. "That Johnny Byrd—he is very funny——"
"Oh, Johnny's funny," said Ruth in an odd voice. She added, "Regular spoiled baby—had everything his way. Only an old guardian to boss him."
"You mean he is an orphan?"
"Completely."
Maria Angelina did not smile. "But that is very sad," she said soberly. "No home life——"
"Don't get it into your head that Johnny Byrd wants any home life," said her cousin dryly, and with a hint of hard warning in her negligent voice. "He's been dodging home life ever since he wore long trousers."
"He must then," Maria Angelina deduced, very simply, "be rich."
"He's one of the Long Island Byrds."
It sounded to Maria like a flock of ducks, but she perceived that it was given for affirmation. She followed Ruth's glance to where the backs of the young men's heads were visible, bending over some coins they were apparently matching. . . . Johnny Byrd's head was flaming in the sunshine. . . .
"He's a bird from a hard-boiled egg," Ruth said with a smile of inner amusement.