“Of course,” he drawled, uncertainly, “if you—er—put it—er—that way!”
The hand lifted. “Mr. Average Jones,” said the owner, “do you know you haven’t once disappointed me in speech or action during our short but rather eventful acquaintance?”
“I hope you’ll be able to say the same ten years from now,” he returned significantly.
She flushed a little at the implication. “What am I to do next?” she asked.
“Do as you would ordinarily do; only don’t take Peter Paul, into the street, or you’ll have a score of high-school boys trailing you. And—this is the most important—if the dog fails to answer your call at any time, and you can’t readily find him by searching, telephone me, at once, at my office. Good-by.”
“I think you are a very staunch friend to those who need you,” she said, gravely and sweetly, giving him her hand.
She clung in his mind like a remembered fragrance, after he had gone back to Astor Court Temple to wait. And though he plunged into an intricate scheme of political advertising which was to launch a new local party, her eyes and her voice haunted him. Nor had he banished them, when, two days later, the telephone brought him her clear accents, a little tremulous now.
“Peter Paul is gone.”
“Since when?”
“Since ten this morning. The house is in an uproar.”