“Good news! I had a good friend once—twice—three times—and lost him every time. Wives get so suspicious of their husband's single friends, you know, so Ï hope I make a hit with your heart's desire, Billy. When do you pull off the wedding?”
“Oh,” said Billy, “that's premature, Jack. I haven't asked her. How could I until I'm able to support her?”
“Look here, son,” Webster replied, “don't you go to work and be the kind of fool I was. You get married and take a chance. If you do, you'll have a son sprouting into manhood when you're as old as I. A man ought to marry young, Bill. Hang the odds. I know what's good for you.”
At the hotel, while Webster shaved and arrayed himself in an immaculate white duck suit, with a broad black silk belt, buck shoes, and a Panama hat. Billy sent a note to Dolores, apprising her that John Stuart Webster had arrived—and would she be good enough to receive them?
Miss Ruey would be that gracious. She was waiting for them in the veranda just off the patio, outwardly calm, but inwardly a foment of conflicting emotions. As they approached she affected not to see them and turning, glanced in the opposite direction; nor did she move her head until Billy's voice, speaking at her elbow, said:
“Well, Dolores, here's my old Jack-partner waiting to be introduced. Jack, permit me to present Miss Dolores Ruey.”
She turned her face and rose graciously, marking with secret triumph the light of recognition that; leaped to his eyes, hovered there the hundredth part of a second and departed, leaving those keen, quizzical blue orbs appraising her in the most natural manner imaginable. Webster bowed. .
“It is a great happiness to meet you, Miss Ruey,” he said gravely.
Dolores gave him her hand. “You have doubtless forgotten, Mr. Webster, but I think we have met before.”
“Indeed!” John Stuart Webster murmured interestedly. “So stupid of me not to remember. Where did we meet?”