"Will you be kind enough to explain the connection?" I demanded fiercely.
It really is unsafe to use that tone with Marion. There was a little flash in her eyes; my glare faltered, then her brief resentment melted into sympathy.
"Connection?" she answered. "Why, what connection could there be?"
My hand sought hers, in gratitude. There was a pause, then we both laughed, and somehow the bitterness of knowing I had been gulled passed away; I even felt a sympathetic appreciation of his artistic touch in assuring me that we were both men of honor.
Suddenly Marion grasped my arm. "Henry," she exclaimed, "he's the man you want!"
"The man I want?"
"Why, yes; didn't you say you wanted a central figure for that set of rural sketches you've planned?"
"By Jove," I cried, with kindling enthusiasm, "he's a character all ready made! If I do him justice, he'll be a—a regular gold mine."
I was rather puzzled by a meaning, but to me, inscrutable smile that lingered on Marion's face after this comment, but she so often sees more in a remark of mine than I do that I prefer not to spoil the effect by asking for an explanation.