False an' foul they are, the brown ones.
They take a girl's poor heart an' witch it away an' twitch it away, an'
toss it back all crushed an' spoilt.' Then she would hug me and sob. She
left soon after; but the warning has haunted me like a superstition....
Could you kiss it away, Ban? Tell me I'm a little fool!"
Approaching footsteps broke in upon them. The square bulk of Jim
Maitland appeared in the doorway.
"What ho! you two. Ban, you're scampin' your polo practice shamefully.
You'll be crabbin' the team if you don't look out. Dinin' here?"
"Yes," said Io. "Is Marie down?"
"Comin' presently. How about a couple of rubbers after dinner?"
To assent seemed the part of tact. Io and Ban went to their corner
table, reserved for three, the third, Archie Densmore, being a prudent
fiction. People drifted over to them, chatted awhile, were carried on
and away by uncharted but normal social currents. It was a tribute to
the accepted status between them that no one settled into the third
chair. The Retreat is the dwelling-place of tact. All the
conversationalists having come and gone, Io reverted over the coffee to
the talk of their hearts.
"I can't expect you to understand me, can I? Especially as I don't
understand myself.
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