She gives him a flitting glance, fanning herself energetically the while. A useless proceeding, for the sea-breeze, that flutters her fair curls like golden banners, is simply delicious.
"I heard something about you over there," she ventures. "One always has to go abroad to hear news from home, you know."
"Very likely; you can hear anything you want to over there. Little Portsmouth is the hot bed of gossip," he answers, smiling dryly.
"Well, for that matter, all places are," she returns. "But you do not ask what it was that I heard?"
"Is it worth the repetition?"
"I think so, but you are not interested, I see;" and she leans back with some displeasure—a pout on the curve of her crimson lip.
He rouses himself, all penitence and forced gallantry.
"I beg your pardon, Mrs. Winans. Any remark from yourself cannot fail to be interesting."
"I heard—I wonder you did not tell me of it yourself—that you and your mother are going next week to Memphis to help to nurse the fever patients."
No answer.