Cynthia introduced her escort.
“It's very good of you, Bob,” she said, with that New England demureness which at times became her so well, “but we couldn't possibly do it. And then I don't like Mr. Sutton.”
“Oh, hang him!” exclaimed Bob. He took a step nearer to her. “Won't you stay this once? I have to go West in the morning.”
“I think you are very lucky,” said Cynthia.
Bob scanned her face searchingly, and his own fell.
“Lucky!” he cried, “I think it's the worst thing that ever happened to me. My father's so hard-headed when he gets his mind set—he's making me do it. He wants me to see the railroads and the country, so I've got to go with the Duncans. I wanted to stay—” He checked himself, “I think it's a blamed nuisance.”
“So do I,” said a voice behind him.
It was not the first time that Mr. Somers Duncan had spoken, but Bob either had not heard him or pretended not to. Mr. Duncan's freckled face smiled at them from the top of the railing, his eyes were on Cynthia's face, and he had been listening eagerly. Mr. Duncan's chief characteristic, beyond his freckles, was his eagerness—a quality probably amounting to keenness.
“Hello,” said Bob, turning impatiently, “I might have known you couldn't keep away. You're the cause of all my troubles—you and your father's private car.”
Somers became apologetic.