Diane always had been a manager, and she liked playing older sister
to so nice a lad. He had been on a footing friendly enough to drop in
unannounced whenever he took the fancy. If they were out, or about to go
out, the freedom of the den, a magazine, and good tobacco had been his.
Then the Arctic gold-fields had claimed Paget and his bride. That had
been more than ten years ago, and until to-day Gordon had not seen them
since.
While Elliot was brushing his dinner coat before the open window of the
room assigned him at the hotel, somebody came out to the porch below.
The voice of a woman floated faintly to him.
"Seen Diane's Irish beauty yet, Ned?"
"Yes," a man answered.
The woman laughed softly. "Mrs. Mallory came up on the same boat with
her." The inflection suggested that the words were meant not to tell a
fact, but some less obvious inference.
"Oh, you women!" the man commented good-naturedly.
"She's wonderfully pretty, and of course Diane will make the most of
her. But Mrs. Mallory is a woman among ten thousand."
"I'd choose the girl if it were me," said the man.
"But it isn't you. We'll see what we'll see."
They were moving up the street and Gordon heard no more.
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