“It isn't my fault,” he said; “I'm sure I hate going as much as you do. It's spoiled my summer, too.”
Then he coughed and looked at Cynthia.
“Well,” said Bob, “I suppose I'll have to introduce you. This,” he added, dragging his friend over the railing, “is Mr. Somers Duncan.”
“I'm awfully glad to meet you, Miss. Wetherell,” said Somers, fervently; “to tell you the truth, I thought he was just making up yarns.”
“Yarns?” repeated Cynthia, with a look that set Mr. Duncan floundering.
“Why, yes,” he stammered. “Worthy said that you were up here, but I thought he was crazy the way he talked—I didn't think—”
“Think what?” inquired Cynthia, but she flushed a little.
“Oh, rot, Somers!” said Bob, blushing furiously under his tan; “you ought never to go near a woman—you're the darndest fool with 'em I ever saw.”
This time even the painter laughed outright, and yet he was a little sorrowful, too, because he could not be even as these youths. But Cynthia sat serene, the eternal feminine of all the ages, and it is no wonder that Bob Worthington was baffled as he looked at her. He lapsed into an awkwardness quite as bad as that of his friend.
“I hope you enjoyed the game,” he said at last, with a formality that was not at all characteristic.