“Tom,” he said at last, taking his arm. “How long since you saw your cousin Irene? The buster I mean.”
“Two years—yes, nearer three,” was Tom’s answer, and Reginald continued:
“You correspond, of course?”
“Never! Her royal highness does not like me. We used to fight when we were children, and I teased her unmercifully. Cut off the head of her rag baby, or was it Rena’s? Anyway I once put an angle worm on Irene’s neck and she never forgave me. We are friends, of course, but nothing more. There’s a free field for you, if you wish to go in.”
“Oh, I don’t want to, or, I beg your pardon. I do not mean any disrespect to your cousin!” Reginald exclaimed, “but I am not a marrying man like you—never meant to marry—never thought of it till lately.”
Here he stopped short with a feeling that he might be giving himself away, but Tom did not seem to notice, and Reginald’s spirits rose a little and he was conscious of a better feeling toward Irene, who had not told Tom, who replied, “I don’t know what that has to do with your calling upon two girls. You are not obliged to marry them because you call. Don’t be such a coward. Irene won’t hurt you, or Rena either.”
“That’s so—that’s so. I am a coward where women are concerned,” Reginald said, trying his best to keep up with Tom.
They were in sight of the house by this time and could see the light in the parlor, and as they drew nearer they could see the graceful figure sitting with her elbow on the table and her head upon one hand, while with the other she gently fanned herself.
“That’s she. That’s Irene,” Tom said in a whisper. “Come on.”
“Oh, yes; hold on a minute till I get my breath and wipe my face. I was never so hot in my life. You’ve run me here at a race-horse speed in your haste to see Rena,” Reginald gasped, stumbling a little in the dark and then stopping short, while Tom laughed softly, knowing how slowly they had come and what hard work it had been to get Rex along at a snail’s pace, let alone a race-horse’s.