She was a large, resilient girl, with a foolish smile, a still more foolish expression of earnestness, and a throaty contralto voice. No more did she offer her forehead for the good-night kiss. Ireton and Langley had returned from a second unsuccessful search; Marvel had come thither to bid good-night to Mrs. “Cheveney wouldn’t have anything to say about it, as it happens,” he remarked, a little grimly. You call it a lot of nicknames—“Babs” and “Bibs” and “Viddles” and “Vee”; you whack at it playfully, and it whacks you back.
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