"Yes, perhaps," he said, vaguely, purposely misleading her.
Tom Ballard's hearty voice broke in on them.
"Well," he said, cheerfully, "thought I'd find Cleo with you, Takie," and then, smiling gallantly at Miss Morton, "but really, I see you've got 'metal more attractive.'" He winked, and continued, "Cousins are privileged beings. Can say lots of things no one else dare."
Fanny Morton's face brightened. She was a pretty girl, with pale brown hair, and a bright, sharp face.
"Oh, now, Mr. Ballard, you are flattering. What would Miss Cleo say?"
Tom scratched his head. "She would prove, I dare say, that I was—a—lying."
The play on words had been entirely lost on Takashima, who had become absorbed in his own reveries. Then Miss Morton's sharp words caught his ear, and he turned to hear what she was saying. She had mentioned the name of an old American friend of his, who had gone to Japan some years before.
"I suppose," Miss Morton had said, "she will be pretty glad when the voyage is over." She had paused here, and Tom had prompted her with a quick query, "Why?"
"Oh! for Arthur Sinclair's sake," she had retorted, and laughingly left them.
Casually, Tom turned to Takashima. "Remember Sinclair, Takie? Great big fellow at Harvard—in for all the races—rowing—everything going—in fact, all-round fine fellow?"