They were winding up the wide, wandering Main Street, the rose-covered verandas of the Arlington on their left; on the right an old garden ran back to the white stucco fronts and red tiles of the De la Gera place.
“Wallie,” Lillian asked him, softly, “are you in love with that girl?”
“Me! Oh, what a question, Lil!” He laughed at her—his nice, lazy laugh she loved so much.
“Are you, Wallie?”
He put up his monocle to meet her lorgnon. “My dear girl, do I look pale and sunken?”
“You are dodging the question. But think”—she was light, almost playful, over it—“is she the sort of woman you would care to introduce as your—wife?”
Wallie looked a little startled, but he took her tone. “My dear Lil, I haven’t thought of her in quite that way.” He grew more serious. “I think she’s wonderful. I never saw anyone like her. You must know her better.”
“I don’t see how I can,” Lillian sighed.
“You mean you won’t see her?”
“I suppose I must, since you are going to bring her to call. But I won’t go about with her. I can’t. Couldn’t you see there on the beach—she isn’t our kind?”