“There’s a draft somewhere,” said Mrs. Forrest, suddenly. “We must be going, Rodney. And now, Zelda, don’t stay out all night. Mrs. Carr is going to take you home. You’ll be sure to be sick if you’re not careful. And”—Zelda was looking at her aunt intently—“Miss Merriam, I do hope you will come to see me. I never go anywhere, you know. And please remember me to your mother.”
“And pray remember me, also,” said Rodney Merriam, feeling Zelda’s eyes upon him.
“Oh, Zee,” said her uncle, in a low tone; “it was all fine; but how did Pollock come to be in the show?—I don’t care to have you know him.”
“Of course I shall know him.”
“But I prefer.”
“Please don’t prefer! I’m having a little fun to-night, and I can’t be serious at all. Some other time, mon oncle—good night!”
“What do you think of that girl?” asked Mrs. Forrest, when she was alone with her brother in their carriage.
“I think she’s very pretty, if you refer to Olive Merriam, and has nice manners,” was his reply.
“There seems to be no way of checking Zelda’s enthusiasms.”
“There is not,”—and Rodney Merriam found a cigar in his pocket and began chewing the end of it; and there was a smile on his face which his sister could not see in the dark; but it was not at all unkind.