“Of course it is.” Margaret slipped her arm through George's; gazed up at him. “Do you like her, George?”
“Like whom?”
“Why, Mary—Miss Humfray.”
“Oh, I think she's a little better than Mrs. Major—in some ways. If that's what you mean.”
Margaret sighed. Such mulish indifference was a dreadful thing to this girl. But she had set her heart on this romance.
“George, dear, I wish you would do something for me.”
“Anything.”
“How nice you are! Will you grow a moustache?”
She anxiously awaited the answer. George took his handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his eyes. He did not speak.
She asked him: “What is the matter?”