"Missing what?" Huntington demanded. "In what little pleasantry has my friendly critic been indulging himself?"
"Let the critic answer for himself," Cosden retorted. "I predicted to Miss Thatcher the exact moment when you would appear, thus proving myself a prophet."
"You take yourself too seriously, Connie. You're no prophet, nor even the son of a prophet; you're simply a good observer. Some men run a block and then wait five minutes for a car; I learned years ago that it was wiser to walk deliberately to the white post and arrive there at the precise moment. But I don't let that car get away from me, my friend."
"If my memory serves me right, Mr. Huntington, you were not always so deliberate," remarked Mrs. Thatcher significantly.
Huntington looked up quickly, unaware until then that the other late breakfasters had followed so closely on his heels.
"The night has been telling tales," he said.
"It was stupid of me not to recognize you before," she answered.
"Do you and Mother know each other?" Merry asked, much interested in the new turn of the conversation.
"Your mother," said Huntington gravely, "did me the honor to accept my escort to our Senior Dance—I won't tell you how many years ago. She deliberately broke my heart, sailed away to Europe, and then returned and married your father, just out of pique. Now that you know the story of my life, I ask you, why should I accelerate my motions, as my captious companion seems to think I should, when your mother's quixotic conduct deprived me years ago of all possible incentive?"
"Then you are really the Monty Huntington I knew!" Mrs. Thatcher exclaimed. "I was sure of it when you spoke of your Class to Philip Hamlen."