“I doubt it,” replied Dick, sulkily. “John Dorris is one of those nice boys, like you read about, and the way Lola is coming on lately he wouldn’t have speed enough to keep up with her. She may marry him, I don’t say she won’t, but if she does God help him.”
“That’s all right, too,” replied his friend, “but she’s too smart to make a fool of herself over a married man like you. She’ll let you run her around in your car and buy her a few nice little presents, but just as you think she’s going to fall into your arms, she’s going to step back and give you the laugh. I may be a fool, but that’s the way it looks to me.”
It was about the way it looked to him also, but he did not think it necessary to inform her of the fact, so to change the subject, and to kill time until the three o’clock appointment, he proposed lunching at Rector’s, and she agreeing, they drove there in his car, and he, contrary to his usual custom, drank far more than was good for him.
Lola herself found time hanging heavily on her hands, and wandered aimlessly about the apartment waiting for her father and Dr. Crossett to return. Maria came to her at last, holding in her hand several letters, all but one of which she placed upon the table.
“Is that one for father?” said Lola, seeing her about to leave the room with one letter in her hand.
“No, Miss. It’s for me.” She hesitated for a moment, then went on shyly. “It’s from Mr. Barnes!”
“Oh,” remarked Lola curiously, “I thought he had stopped writing to you.”
“No, Miss.”
“Can you read them yourself now?”
“I try to,” replied Maria; “I manage to spell ’em out somehow.”