“Of course I am. You needn’t ask that.”
“By the way, Griffiths sends you his love.”
“What cheek!”
He had talked to her a great deal of Griffiths. He had told her how flirtatious he was and had amused her often with the narration of some adventure which Griffiths under the seal of secrecy had imparted to him. Mildred had listened, with some pretence of disgust sometimes, but generally with curiosity; and Philip, admiringly, had enlarged upon his friend’s good looks and charm.
“I’m sure you’ll like him just as much as I do. He’s so jolly and amusing, and he’s such an awfully good sort.”
Philip told her how, when they were perfect strangers, Griffiths had nursed him through an illness; and in the telling Griffiths’ self-sacrifice lost nothing.
“You can’t help liking him,” said Philip.
“I don’t like good-looking men,” said Mildred. “They’re too conceited for me.”
“He wants to know you. I’ve talked to him about you an awful lot.”
“What have you said?” asked Mildred.