"I shall never give in."
"He's a nice fellow."
"He's not my ideal——" there was a pathetic note of appeal in her young voice.
"Ah—ideals——" Charlemagne had dropped his banter. "Don't spoil your happiness looking for the ideal man—he's like the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow—something we hear of, but have never seen."
There was a heavy silence. Then Elizabeth said, catching her breath, "But—but I have found my ideal, Mr. Dabney."
"You have? And it's not McChesney?"
I peeped at them through the curtain. They were in big wicker chairs in front of the door that led to the porch. Elizabeth had taken off her coat, showing her thin white blouse with its crisp frills. Her cheeks were as pink as the rose which she picked to pieces with nervous fingers.
"No," she said tremulously, "it's—it's not Mr. McChesney."
I held my breath. Would she dare?