“He was out there one night when Father Paddock had an entertainment. Mr. Craighill brought me and a friend of mine home in his motor.”
Walsh found a handkerchief and blew his nose vigorously. When he had settled his pudgy frame back in his chair he asked abruptly:
“What do you think of him?”
“Why—I don’t think!” said the girl, and her laugh reached Wayne—her light laugh of real mirth that had the ease of a swallow’s flight.
“Are you afraid of him?”
“No; I’m not afraid of him. We’re hardly acquainted. I’ve only seen him three or four times.”
“Oh! The meeting at Paddock’s place wasn’t the first?”
“No. I had seen him before—the first time at the Institute; you know I’m studying there.”
“He didn’t hesitate to speak to you without an introduction, did he?” persisted Walsh, though with a good-humoured twinkle in his little eyes.
“No, Mr. Walsh, he did speak to me, but it was all right. The circumstances made it all right.”