“By Jove!”
This exclamation caused Geraldine to observe Percival. There was a mysterious knowingness on his face that sent the mercury of her curiosity up into the nineties.
“Is Mr. Pommery an acquaintance of yours, Mr. Percival?”
“He is my alter ego, my better man; and I think I have got at his secret.”
“Surely such strong friends have no secrets from one another.”
“Jack kept one bottled up ever so tight, wired down like the bitter beer they send to India. May I ask you a question?” turning abruptly to Geraldine.
“You have asked so many that usage has almost become a right, Mr. Percival.”
“Are you fond of violets?”
A red, red rose-blush spread itself over the young Irish girl’s face and neck and shell-like ears—a blush that came and glowed and refused to be put down—a blush that wooed and caressed and fondled.
“Why do you ask me?” she palpitated.