Lola continued, mischief in her eyes: "Alas! the spirit of commercialism has pervaded even Southern Chivalry, and forlorn maidens must pay as they go." Rutledge was plainly resentful.
"Now I am very unselfish, Mr. Rutledge, and—I wish it had been Elise." Her mischief dissolved in a confiding smile, full of sympathy,—and Rutledge was very humble.
Lola DeVale's sympathy was warm and irresistible, and before he was aware he was telling her of his love for Elise in a way to set her interest a-tingle.
"Why don't you tell her of it?" asked Lola. "Tell her that it just overwhelms all earlier loves."
"Earlier loves? I never loved any other woman," Rutledge answered.
"Oh, of course not." Lola could scarcely repress a smile at the thought that a man always swears only his last passion is genuine.
"But tell her—tell her!" she repeated.
"I have told her."
"When?"
"Three years ago."