forest at the table that night and her words were like a lash across his face.
And at that hour, under live oaks bearded with moss, Marcia Murray sat with crossed knees under the steering wheel of her runabout. Beside her Philip Rowe lounged, a smile on his thin lips, toying with a magnolia blossom.
"Like a flake of moonlight," he said softly, holding it up against the shadows. "As white as your throat, Marcia!" He dropped the blossom and leaned toward her, arm sliding along the back of the seat.
The girl drew away. "Be cautious," she murmured.
"With you, I know no caution—"
"You did when John was here."
He frowned. "Discretion," he corrected and his glowing eyes twinkled. "I envied him."
"He has everything you want, hasn't he, Phil?"
"He has you, it seems."
"And his father's fortune?"
One of Rowe's hands ran over his chin. "Not yet," he said, and in the casual words was a degree of triumph.
The girl looked up quickly. "Old Luke does like you, doesn't he?"
"He likes any one who persists—and persists—and persists—With Luke as with others, persistence wins."
He leaned further toward her with that, and the smile was gone from his eyes; gone from the girl's face too, and she betrayed a flash of bewilderment, of wild guessing; the composure came back though, and when he reached for her hand again, she let her cool fingers nestle in his palm. But she did not permit him to hold her close—very close—not that night.
