"A voice," he mused, looking hard at the end of his cigarette which had gone out: and the odd smile began to flicker in his eyes again.
Mischief prompting, she began: "I wonder what chance I should have in your competition? First prize I couldn't aspire to, but—there would be a sort of booby prize—wouldn't there, Mr. Seabury?"
"There would be only one prize——"
"Oh!"
"And that would be the booby prize; the prize booby." And he smiled his odd smile and laid his hand rather gracefully over his heart. "You have won him, Miss Gay."
She looked at him prepared to laugh, but, curiously enough, there was less of the booby about him as she saw him there than she had expected—a tall, clean-cut, attractive young fellow, with a well-shaped head and nice ears—a man, not a boy, after all—pleasant, amiably self-possessed, and of her own sort, as far as breeding showed.
Gone was the indescribably indefinite suggestion of too good looks, of latent self-sufficiency. He no longer struck her as being pleased with himself, of being a shade—just a shade—too sure of himself. A change, certainly; and to his advantage. Kindness, sympathy, recognition make wonderful changes in some people.
"I'll tell you what I'd do if I were queen, and"—she glanced at him—"a matrimonial prize.... Shall I?"