His cousin turned the note over, without putting it back in his pocket, in a manner of disowning it, apologetically. "That's queer."
"Why?"
"I don't know. I thought Aren't you going to see her?"
"I think so. Yes."
"Are you? When?"
"Whenever you like."
Conroy was obviously relieved. "I'll call for you on my way over to-night, shall I?"
"Yes . . . if you're going to-night."
"About half-past eight?"
"That'll do. Yes."
"You'll be ready?"
"I'll try to."
"All right. Half-past eight, sharp."
Don escaped, ashamed of his deception; and Conroy, before he tucked away the letter in his pocket, fingered it a moment, smiling like a flattered young Lothario.
He arrived at Don's boarding-house at eight o'clock, in high spirits, and assumed the leadership of the expedition at once, laughing and talking and straightening his necktie before the mirror and cocking his head on one side to see the "set" of his trouser legs, while he waited for Don to polish a pair of cracked shoes. He was too boyish to have any self-conscious vanity, but he glanced at his watch, patted it back into his pocket, and smoothed his
