“He seems to have made himself mighty popular in his ten days,” he observed, bitterly. “Look here! _Is_ he going to take part with you in that ‘Pinafore’ thing?” “Certainly he is. The committee were at their wits’ end to know who to pick for the _Ralph Rackstraw_ part. His coming was the luckiest thing that ever happened. He sings well and he has had lots of experience in amateur theatricals. And he was so nice about it. He didn’t want to take the part, here, among strangers.... What did you say?” He had muttered an inaudible something. A thought came to her. “Why, Bob,” she cried, “you’re not cross because you weren’t invited to take part, are you? You don’t sing. You refused to sing even in the chorus at the Old Folks’ Concert. And we--I mean the committee--seemed to think it wasn’t necessary to have any one select the costumes this time; the books tells us just what to wear. You mustn’t feel slighted. I never supposed for a minute that you would.” He shook his head impatiently. “Of course I don’t feel slighted,” he declared. “That doesn’t amount to anything.” “Then what is it? Why are you so grumpy? I never saw you act so before.” He frowned. “Esther,” he blurted, after a moment of indecision, “I don’t like this business at all. I don’t like it.” “What business?” “Having this fellow here in the house with you, going everywhere with you and--and, well, I don’t like it.” She gazed at him in incredulous astonishment. Then she laughed merrily. “Bob!” she exclaimed. “Why, Bob Griffin! You are not jealous, are you? You are not silly enough to be _that_.” He was precisely that, but of course--perhaps for that very reason--he hotly denied the accusation. “Of course I’m not jealous,” he declared. “Don’t be foolish, Esther.... And don’t laugh either. There is nothing to laugh about.” She tried her best to obey, but the laugh still lingered at the corner of her lips. She leaned forward to take his hand. “Bob!” she said, reproachful. He drew his hand away. “I don’t like his being with you,” he insisted. “I don’t like it at all. He ought not to be here.” “But I can’t help his being here, can I? He is uncle’s visitor, not mine. And his father was one of uncle’s best friends years ago. And so, when old Mr. Covell wrote--” “Oh, never mind! I don’t care how he got here. He isn’t the sort of fellow you ought to be with. And I don’t want you to take part in that ‘Pinafore’ play with him.” “But I must take part. I have promised that I would. Bob, don’t be so unreasonable.... Why do you say that he isn’t the sort of fellow I should be with? What makes you say that?” “Because it is the truth. He is a--well, he is--oh, he isn’t your kind, that’s all.” “What does that mean? What is my kind?” “You know well enough. He is-- Oh, I won’t talk about him behind his back!” “But you have talked about him. You have said too much or not enough, one or the other. Why don’t you like him? He likes you. He said you and he were friends there in New York.”