“Well, when I got your message I telephoned Billy to come to the house and he’ll be there as soon as we are. He’s been in the depths for weeks. You know you had got a mighty strong hold on dear old Billy, and when you dropped him it hurt. And we’ve all missed you!”
The Kinneys and their friends had missed her; they had missed her dash, her antics—the Nan she had resolved to be no more. But it was pleasant to be in Mrs. Kinney’s company again. She was a simple, friendly soul who liked clothes and a good time; her capacity for enjoying anything serious was wholly negligible.
“I knew, of course, that Billy was back of your invitation. I saw him Saturday—quite accidentally, and he was bluer than indigo.”
“He spent Sunday with us and told us all about meeting you. He was perfectly furious because you were out skylarking with one of his clerks! But he got to laughing about it,—told us some funny stories about your new suitor,—Jerry, is that the name?”
“Mr. Jeremiah Amidon, please,” laughed Nan. “It was killing that Billy should find me out canoeing with him. Jerry and I were kids together, and he’s grown to be a great consolation to me.”
“He must be a consolation to Billy, too; he says the youngster’s trying to reform him!” Grace suddenly clasped Nan’s hand. “You ought to take charge of Billy! He’s awfully in love with you, Nan. He’s going to urge you to marry him—at once. That’s why—”
“No! No! I’ll never do it,” cried Nan despairingly.
It was another of her mistakes, this yielding to Copeland’s demand for an interview that could have but one purpose. She was thoroughly angry at herself, half angry at Mrs. Kinney for acting as Copeland’s intermediary.
Copeland was pacing the veranda smoking a cigarette when they reached the house.
“It’s mighty nice of you to come, Nan,” he said.