Marie, uncertain of her lover’s creeds, hesitatingly glanced at him. “Yes—in a way. But I won’t, if you object.”
This self-abnegation pleased Loftus. He twisted his mustache and smiled. “But no, you little goose, I don’t object in the least. On the contrary. It is right and proper that you should.”
Gratified at this encouraging indulgence the girl’s hand stole into his. Then for awhile they sat and talked about nothing whatever, which, of all subjects, is, perhaps, the least disagreeable. Wearying at last even of that, they got up to go.
At the gate Marie drew back. A man was passing, swaying uncertainly, arguing with himself.
“Why! it is Mr. Annandale,” the girl in a frightened whisper murmured.
“I wonder where he got all that liquor?” Loftus queried. “Not at Sylvia Waldron’s, I’ll wager.”
“Sylvia Waldron! What a sweet name,” said Marie. “Who is she?”
“The girl he is engaged to.”
“Is she pretty?”
“Oh, tall and dark, don’t you know. Not at all my style.”
But now night had swallowed Annandale. Loftus and Marie passed on.