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"
"He's a dear!" said Lola.
"Do you know many of Dale's friends?" I asked.
"Hardly any," she replied. "It's rather lonesome." Then she broke into a
laugh.
"I was so terrified at meeting you the first time. Dale can talk of no
one else. He makes a kind of god of you. I felt I was going to hate you
like the devil. I expected quite a different person."
The diplomatist listens to much and says little.
"Indeed," I remarked.
She nodded. "I thought you would be a big beefy man with a red face, you
know. He gave me the idea somehow by calling you a 'splendid chap.' You
see, I couldn't think of a 'splendid chap' with a white face and a waxed
moustache and your way of talking."
"I am sorry," said I, "not to come up to your idea of the heroic."
"But you do!" she cried, with one of her supple twists of the body. "It
was I that was stupid. And I don't hate you at all. You can see that I
don't. I didn't even hate you when you came as an enemy."
"Ah!" said I. "What made you think that? We agreed to argue it out, if
you remember.


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