"Who's talking of love?" asked Bobbie, coming up.
"Bobbie doesn't think of anything else," said Justin; "only he's never sure of its object. Last month it was Sara, and now it is Doris—next week it will be——"
"Next week," said Bobbie, firmly, "it will be Doris,—and the next and the next—and always——"
They were on the porch now—the wide porch with its rugs and low wicker chairs, its gay striped awning and its bowls of white and purple lilacs.
Sophie was waiting for them, and Justin greeted her with all the light carelessness gone from his voice.
"Dear lady, it is good to see you again, but hard to see this," and his eyes went to her black gown.
Her lips were tremulous. "I know. But when I meet people who knew him, it does not make me sad; it makes me glad because all of his friends are my good friends."
"There are two men whom I always place side by side as peers; one is Anthony Blake and the other your husband. The surgeon and the scientist——"
"Yes," she said, "and they never met. But Diana knew him—and loved him."
"And she loves—Anthony——"