Three persons, walking behind this couple, had overheard these words,—to wit, Jones, Jones’s girl, and myself. By Jones’s girl I would be understood as referring to one of our Christmas party, through whose influence Jones had been led to infer that the lectures at the University immediately after Christmas were of comparatively minor importance. We were all struck by the absence of banter in Charley’s last remark. Jones looked at me, and opening wide his eyes, and dropping his chin, formed his mouth into a perfect circle.
“The old fox is caught,” whispered he; and taking another look, “sure pop!” he added,—an inelegant expression which I record with regret, and only in the interests of historic accuracy. Jones’s girl, while we smiled at Charley, had her woman’s eyes on Alice, and with raised brows and a nod directed our attention to her. Alice had obviously noticed the peculiar tone of Charley’s voice, and coyly dropped her eyes. “Mr. Frobisher,” she began, “I must beg your pardon.”
“For what, pray?”
“For my rudeness in pulling your arm, just now!”
“Oh, don’t speak of it,” and then a merry twinkle coming into his eyes, “it didn’t hurt a bit. I rather liked it. D-d-d-d-o it again.”
Just then Jones turned quickly, and, with the delighted look of a discoverer, snapped his head, first at his girl and then at me.
“You saw it?”
His girl nodded assent. Jones looked at me inquiringly.
“What was it?” I whispered.
“He squeezed her hand with his arm,—most positively—didn’t he?”