and David sighed plaintively.

Caroline eyed him a moment across the rose she held to her lips, then
laughed delightedly.

"Indeed, indeed, I couldn't stand losing you, David, nor could Phoebe.
Don't imagine it!" And Caroline confessed her affection for him with the
naïveté with which a child offers a flower.

The absolute entente cordiale which had existed between her and Phoebe
from the moment Mrs. Buchanan had presented them to each other in the
dusk-shadowed library, had been extended to include David Kildare. He was
duly appreciative of her almost appealing friendship, chaffed her about
the three governors, depended upon her to further his tumultuous suit,
admired her beauty, insisted upon it in season and out, and initiated her
into the social intricacies of his gay set with the greatest glee.

"I don't trust you one little bit, Caroline Darrah Brown," David broke in
on her moment's silent appreciation of him and his friendliness. "You
look at him kinder partial-like, too."

"Oh, one _must_ admire him, his poems are so lovely! I have watched for
them from the first one years ago. Do you remember the one where he--"

"Don't remember a single line of a single one, and don't want to!
Phoebe's always quoting them at me. She's got a book of 'em. See if I
don't smash him up some day if I have to listen to much more of it."
David's face was a study in the contradictions of a tormented grin.

Caroline eyed him again for a moment across the rose and then they both