"Exquisite! The latest Ypsilanti mode."
Marjorie, suffering almost more acutely from being badly frocked than from being duped in her matrimonial hopes, threw herself on Mrs. Wellington's mercy.
"I'm so unhappy in this. Couldn't you lend me or sell me something a little smarter?"
"I'd love to, my dear," said Mrs. Wellington, "but I left home on short notice myself. I shall need all my divorce trousseau in Reno. Otherwise—I—but here's your husband. You two ought to have some place to spoon. I'll leave you this whole room."
And she swept out, nodding to Mallory, who had divined Marjorie's presence, and felt the need of being near her, though he also felt the need of finishing the story of the great ball game. Husband-like, he felt that he was conferring sufficient courtesy in throwing a casual smile across the top of the paper.
Marjorie studied his motley garb, and her own, and groaned:
"We're a sweet looking pair, aren't we?"
"Mr. and Miss Fit," said Mallory, from behind the paper.
"Oh, Harry, has your love grown cold?" she pleaded.
"Marjorie, how can you think such a thing?" still from behind the paper.