Cynthia did not seem to think it worth while to answer this, so the painter tried to help him out.
“That was a fine stop you made, Mr. Worthington,” he said; “wasn't it, Cynthia?”
“Everybody seemed to think so,” answered Cynthia, cruelly; “but if I were a man and had hands like that” (Bob thrust them in his pockets), “I believe I could stop a ball, too.”
Somers laughed uproariously.
“Good-by,” said Bob, with uneasy abruptness, “I've got to go into the field now. When can I see you?”
“When you get back from the West—perhaps,” said Cynthia.
“Oh,” cried Bob (they were calling him), “I must see you to-night!” He vaulted over the railing and turned. “I'll come back here right after the game,” he said; “there's only one more inning.”
“We'll come back right after the game,” repeated Mr. Duncan.
Bob shot one look at him,—of which Mr. Duncan seemed blissfully unconscious,—and stalked off abruptly to second base.
The artist sat pensive for a few moments, wondering at the ways of women, his sympathies unaccountably enlisted in behalf of Mr. Worthington.