He was sorely
disturbed by her almost constant allusion to Freddie Ulstervelt and his
"amazingly attractive ways." Was it possible that she could be really in
love with that insignificant little whipper-snapper? He seemed to be
propounding this doleful question to the lofty, sphinx-like
Waldraster-Spitze, looming dark in the path of the south.
"Hello!" exclaimed a voice close to his ear,--the fresh, confident voice
that he knew so well. "I've been looking for you everywhere." Freddie
drew up a chair and sat down at his "good side." The young man appeared
to have something weighty on his mind. Brock shifted uneasily. "I want
to put it up to you, Mr. Medcroft, as man to man. You are Connie's
brother-in-law and you ought to be able to set me straight."
"Ah, I see," said Brock vaguely.
"You do?" queried the other, surprise and doubt in his face.
"No, I should say I don't, don't you see," substituted Brock.
"I was wondering how you _could_ have seen. It's a matter I haven't
discussed with anyone. I've come to have a liking for you, Roxbury.
You're my sort; you have a sort of New York feeling about you. I'm sure
you're enough of a sport to give me unprejudiced advice. Hands across
the sea, see? Well, to get right down to the point, old man,--you'll
pardon my plain speech,--I think Constance ought to marry an American."
Brock sat up very straight. "I think that's--that's a matter for Miss
Fowler to determine," he said coldly.
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