She got
Macdonald on the wire.
"I've just heard something nice about you. Do tell me it's true," she
said, her voice warm with sympathy.
Macdonald laughed with an almost boyish embarrassment. "It's true, I
reckon."
"I'm so glad. She's a lovely girl. The sweetest thing that ever lived.
I'm sure you'll be happy. I always did think you would make a perfect
husband. Of course, I'm simply green with envy of her."
Her little ripple of laughter was gay and care-free. The man at the
other end of the line never had liked her better. Since he was not a
fool he had guessed pretty closely how things stood with her. She was
a game little sport, he told himself approvingly. It appealed to him
immensely that she could take such a facer and come up smiling.
There were no signs of worry wrinkles on her face when the maid admitted
a caller half an hour later. Oliver Dustin was the name on the card. He
was a remittance man, a tame little parlor pet whose vocation was to
fetch and carry for pretty women, and by some odd trick of fate he had
been sifted into the Northland. Mrs. Mallory had tolerated him rather
scornfully, but to-day she smiled upon him.
Propped up by pillows, she reclined luxuriously on a lounge.
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