“I want your advice. I want your help, Staniford.”
“I thought so! Coming and forgiving me in that—apostolic manner.”
“Don't!”
“Well. What do you want my help for? What have you been doing?” Staniford paused, and suddenly added: “Have you been making love to Lurella?” He said this in his ironical manner, but his smile was rather ghastly.
“For shame, Staniford!” cried Dunham. But he reddened violently.
“Then it isn't with Miss Hibbard that you want my help. I'm glad of that. It would have been awkward. I'm a little afraid of Miss Hibbard. It isn't every one has your courage, my dear fellow.”
“I haven't been making love to her,” said Dunham, “but—I—”
“But you what?” demanded Staniford sharply again. There had been less tension of voice in his joking about Miss Hibbard.
“Staniford,” said his friend, “I don't know whether you noticed her, at dinner, when she looked across to our own side?”
“What did she do?”