This was the opening Buck Ogilvy had sparred for. Fixing Moira with
his bright blue eyes, he grinned boldly and said: "Suppose, Miss
McTavish, we start a league for the dispersion of gloom. You be the
president, and I'll be the financial secretary."
"How would the league operate?" Moira demanded cautiously.
"Well, it might begin by giving a dinner to all the members, followed
by a little motor-trip into the country next Saturday afternoon,"
Buck suggested.
Moira's Madonna glance appraised him steadily. "I haven't known you
very long, Mr. Ogilvy," she reminded him.
"Oh, I'm easy to get acquainted with," he retorted lightly. "Besides,
don't I come well recommended?" He pondered for a moment. Then: "I'll
tell you what, Miss McTavish. Suppose we put it up to Bryce Cardigan.
If he says it's all right we'll pull off the party. If he says it's
all wrong, I'll go out and drown myself--and fairer words than them
has no man spoke."
"I'll think it over," said Moira.
"By all means. Never decide such an important matter in a hurry. Just
tell me your home telephone number, and I'll ring up at seven this
evening for your decision."
Reluctantly Moira gave him the number. She was not at all prejudiced
against this carroty stranger--in fact, she had a vague suspicion
that he was a sure cure for the blues, an ailment which she suffered
from all too frequently; and, moreover, his voice, his respectful
manner, his alert eyes, and his wonderful clothing were all rather
alluring.
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