Constance, in the summer-house, laughed again, although less happily than before, and dropped her portfolio as loudly as possible, while Johnny Gamble merely grinned.

“That’s what I wondered about,” persisted the grizzled financier, as oblivious to the noises from within the jessamine bower as his wife had been.  “I should have thought that on Constance’s account you would have dropped Gresham.”

“How absurd!” laughed Mrs. Courtney.  “Why, she is to marry him!”

“I don’t believe it!” indignantly denied Courtney.  “She got him in a will with a million dollars, and it isn’t enough!”

Constance’s foot, twitching nervously, rustled a dry leaf, and her heart popped into her throat lest the noise should be heard.  The time had passed for wishing to be discovered.

Johnny Gamble had ceased to grin and was looking scared.

“Mr. Gresham is of a very old family,” Mr. Courtney’s wife reminded him.

“Age is no recommendation for an egg,” her husband kindly informed her.  “Gresham is second cousin to Lord Yawpingham, and if they had any sense of shame they’d murder each other for the relationship.”

“Oh, Ben, I’m sure you’re harsh,” protested the optimistic Mrs. Courtney.

“I’m so charitable as to be almost weak,” he insisted with a grin.  “Seriously; though, Lucy, Gresham’s not square.  He tried to destroy Johnny Gamble’s credit with me two or three weeks ago in a most underhanded manner.”

There was a moment of silence, during which the pair in the bower gazed straight up at nothing.

“You seem to like Mr. Gamble,” mused Mrs. Courtney.  “Everybody does, however.  Where is he from?”

“Some little town up the state,” returned Courtney indifferently.  “He’s a fine young fellow, square as a die and a hustler!  He’s going to marry Constance Joy.”

Johnny Gamble, turning the color of a tomato, dropped his sailor straw hat, and its edge hit the tiled floor with a noise like the blow of an ax.  Constance could have murdered him for it.  They missed a lot of conversation just about then.

Courtney and his wife rounded the corner of the bower and paused a moment before turning into it.

“Really, Ben,” defended Mrs. Courtney, returning to the criticism that her husband by now wished he had not made, “except for the epidemic of Wobbleses this would have been a delightful week-end party:  Constance, Polly, fluffy little Winnie, Mrs. Follison and our own two girls; Mr. Loring, Val Russel, Bruce Townley, Sammy Chirp, Mr. Gamble and Mr. Gresham.  For your entertainment you’ll have Mr. Washer, Mr. Close and Colonel Bouncer, with whom you will play poker from the time they reach here this afternoon until they go away Monday morning.”

“It was a good party!” agreed Courtney, “By the way, I owe my poker guests to Johnny Gamble.  He asked if they would be here, and seemed to want them.  He’s a live member!  Did I ever tell you how he helped me skin old Mort Washer?” And, changing his mind about entering the jessamine bower, Mr. Courtney, explaining with great glee the skinning of his friend Mort Washer, took the other path and the two strolled away without having seen or heard the luckless eavesdroppers.