Tom winked at Billy as if to say, “We’re in the hands of the women.”
“Let me tell him because I saw it with my own eyes,” said Arden.
She remained leaning against the street door and at every sound of an auto outside peered expectantly through the curtain as she talked. Tom had often seen her in the street and had known her for the new girl in town, belonging to the family that had moved to Bridgeboro from somewhere in Connecticut. Then, by reason of his interest in Wilfred, he had acquired a sort of slight bowing acquaintance with her. It occurred to him now that she was very pretty and of a high spirit which somehow set off her prettiness.
“Let me tell him, mother,” she repeated. “Did you notice that little girl, Mr. Slade——”
“Why don’t you call him Tom?” Wilfred asked weakly.
Here, indeed, was a question. An invalid, like an autocrat, may say what he pleases. Poor Mrs. Cowell made the matter worse.
“Yes, dear, call him Tom; Wilfred wants you to feel chummy with Mr. Tom—just as he does.”
“Did you notice a girl in an express wagon chasing a ball?” Arden asked.
“A girl in an express wagon chasing a ball?” Tom laughed. “I never notice girls in express wagons chasing balls when I’m driving.”
“Well,” said Arden, “a boy in a gray suit who was eating a piece of pie or something—do you know him?”