"What are you two whispering about?" demanded Freddie Ulstervelt
noisily, patience coming to an end.

"Wha--what the devil is that to--" began Brock furiously. Constance
brought him up sharp with a warning kick on the ankle. He vowed
afterward that he would carry the mark to his grave.

"He's telling me what a nice chap you are, Freddie," said she sweetly.
Brock glared out of the window. Freddie sniffed scornfully.

"I'm getting sick of this job," growled Brock under his breath. "I
didn't calculate on--"

"Now, Roxbury dear, don't be a bear," she pleaded so gently, her eyes so
full of appeal, that he flushed with sudden shame and contrition.

"Forgive me," he said, the old light coming back into his eyes so
strongly that she quivered for an instant before lowering her own. "I
hate that confounded puppy," he explained lamely, guarding his voice
with a new care. "If you felt as I do, you would too."

She laughed in the old way, but she was not soon to forget that moment
when panic was so imminent.

"I--I don't see how anyone can help liking Freddie," she said, without
actually knowing why. He stared hard at the Danube below. After a long
silence he said,--

"It's all tommy-rot about it being blue, isn't it?"