“What!” cried that complimented but astounded gentleman. “Me? Miss Darcy?”
“Well, if it isn’t you,” said Jack lifelessly, looking from one to the other: “will you kindly tell—”
“It is me, but it isn’t her,” broke in Harmon, with the superb disregard of grammar suitable to the occasion. “Man alive, it’s Gloria!”
As if in confirmation, Gloria’s voice came to them, down the hallway.
“Darcy! Where are you, child?”
Two chairs which foolishly attempted to impede Mr. Thomas Harmon’s abrupt and athletic progress across the floor were sent to the janitor next day.
“Tom!” cried Gloria’s voice in a breathless and different tone. Then the door slammed.
Jack Remsen turned to Darcy. “So that’s it, is it?” he said slowly.
“That,” answered Darcy, “is it. Isn’t it splendid!”
“Couldn’t be splendider—for those most concerned. What about the rest of it?”