“I don’t know,” said Cynthia.

“What are you going to do after the game?” Bob demanded.

“I’m going home of course,” said Cynthia.

His face fell.

“Can’t you come to the house for supper and stay for the fireworks?” he begged pleadingly.  “We’d be mighty glad to have your friend, too.”

Cynthia introduced her escort.

“It’s very good of you, Bob,” she said, with that New England demureness which at times became her so well, “but we couldn’t possibly do it.  And then I don’t like Mr. Sutton.”

“Oh, hang him!” exclaimed Bob.  He took a step nearer to her.  “Won’t you stay this once?  I have to go West in the morning.”

“I think you are very lucky,” said Cynthia.

Bob scanned her face searchingly, and his own fell.

“Lucky!” he cried, “I think it’s the worst thing that ever happened to me.  My father’s so hard-headed when he gets his mind set—­he’s making me do it.  He wants me to see the railroads and the country, so I’ve got to go with the Duncans.  I wanted to stay—­” He checked himself, “I think it’s a blamed nuisance.”

“So do I,” said a voice behind him.

It was not the first time that Mr. Somers Duncan had spoken, but Bob either had not heard him or pretended not to.  Mr. Duncan’s freckled face smiled at them from the top of the railing, his eyes were on Cynthia’s face, and he had been listening eagerly.  Mr. Duncan’s chief characteristic, beyond his freckles, was his eagerness—­a quality probably amounting to keenness.

“Hello,” said Bob, turning impatiently, “I might have known you couldn’t keep away.  You’re the cause of all my troubles—­you and your father’s private car.”

Somers became apologetic.

“It isn’t my fault,” he said; “I’m sure I hate going as much as you do.  It’s spoiled my summer, too.”

Then he coughed and looked at Cynthia.

“Well,” said Bob, “I suppose I’ll have to introduce you.  This,” he added, dragging his friend over the railing, “is Mr. Somers Duncan.”

“I’m awfully glad to meet you, Miss.  Wetherell,” said Somers, fervently; “to tell you the truth, I thought he was just making up yarns.”

“Yarns?” repeated Cynthia, with a look that set Mr. Duncan floundering.

“Why, yes,” he stammered.  “Worthy said that you were up here, but I thought he was crazy the way he talked—­I didn’t think—­”

“Think what?” inquired Cynthia, but she flushed a little.

“Oh, rot, Somers!” said Bob, blushing furiously under his tan; “you ought never to go near a woman—­you’re the darndest fool with ’em I ever saw.”

This time even the painter laughed outright, and yet he was a little sorrowful, too, because he could not be even as these youths.  But Cynthia sat serene, the eternal feminine of all the ages, and it is no wonder that Bob Worthington was baffled as he looked at her.  He lapsed into an awkwardness quite as bad as that of his friend.