Merrington leaned forward, his boyish face radiant, the bronze of his skin dark against the white suit he wore. His cousin let her eyes rest on him with an admiration he was too modest to detect.
“Nothing and everything,” he returned, after a time. “She is the most striking girl I’ve ever seen. She is plucky and daring and defiant.”
“Charming qualities for a wife! Is that all?”
“I can’t put the rest in words,” he answered, coloring swarthily.
Just then the latch of the Selwyns’ front gate clicked, and Jacqueline appeared on the shaded street. Peggie came to a speedy resolution.
“Jacqueline!” she cried. “Wait a minute until I get my hat. I want to join you.”
As the girl stopped at the foot of the path, Merrington went briskly toward her. She met him with grave annoyance.
“We have become near neighbors, Miss Selwyn.” There was not a trace of nervousness in the clear tones.
“That is a seaside perquisite. Asbury, especially, makes the whole world kin.”
He could not have said that she was rude, but every word was a rebuff and a disclaimer of intimacy. His instinct told him it was not rudeness of which she was accusing him. So much, at least, had his introduction to her wrought. The reflection made him smile genially, and she noted how dazzling his even teeth were in his suntanned face.