This was not like Phil Grayson—this sweet-tempered, gentle, good-looking writer of a literature which might be included under the term of belles lettres—this ornamental young fellow whose agreeable devotion she had come to take for granted—whose rare poems pleased her critical taste and flattered it when she saw them printed in the most exclusive of periodicals and hailed effusively by the subtlest of critics.
"Phil," she said, her brown eyes resting on him with a curiosity not free from irritation, "is this really what you think I am—after all these years of friendship?"
"It really is, Helen."
Into her hurt face came the pink tint of wrath again; but she sat quite still, her head lowered, pulling fronds from the fern on her lap.
"I'm sorry if you're offended," he said cheerfully, and lighted a cigarette.
Helen's troubled face cooled; she tore tiny shreds of living green from the fern; her remote eyes rested on him, on the blue hills across the valley, on the river below them, sparkling under the July sun.
Down there, Marie Belter, with her red parasol, was sauntering across the pasture, and Harry paddled faithfully beside her, fanning his features with his straw hat.
"There goes Marie and Fido," said Grayson, laughing. "Good Lord! After all, it's a dog's life at any angle you care to view it."
"What is a dog's life?" inquired Helen crisply.
"Marriage, dear child."