“But not if you’re going to bait me, or make fun of me afterward,” I qualified.
“I wouldn’t think of it,” declared Mrs. “Ted.”
“And you promise not to mention my name to her, not even to allude to me? This sort of thing is altogether out of my line.”
“You surprise me,” she said, but she promised.
So it happened that, a little later, in one of those nooks which the genius of decorators devises, and the man of discernment discovers, Margery and I were having that talk—“all to ourselves.” It developed that we had an affinity of tastes. It was her ambition to travel—she had never traveled. She delighted in long tramps—heretofore she had found no one to be her companion. She was sure that automobiling was “just the best sort of fun,” judging from the one ride she had had. And so time slipped by, and I had utterly forgotten “Edith” and the other “Mr. Page,” and everything else except one thing, when Mrs. “Ted’s” voice, just outside the barrier of foliage which hid us, complained that Miss Gans could not be found anywhere.
Margery heard, and flushed. “Come on,” she said. “This is disgraceful.” She rose.
“But——” I objected.
“No buts,” she insisted. “Have you forgotten Edith?”
“For the time being,” I admitted.
She brushed past me. Her bearing was one of indignant scorn. But, over her shoulder, she remarked, as she looked back: “What a nice place this would be to eat supper.”