“George!” Mary cried. “George! The Rose! You've found her!”
George gave a nervous little crack of laughter. “I never lost her.”
“Never lost her! No, but she's been—”
“I've had her all the time!”
“All the—”
“I took her!”
“You took her! You—took her! Oh, George, speak sense! Whatever can you mean?” Mary had jumped to her feet when first the Rose stepped forth; now was close to her George—face a little white, perplexed; hands clasped.
He cried: “Sweetest dove of a Mary, don't talk like that. Sit down and I'll tell you.”
“But what have you done?—what have you done?”
The true woman was in that question. How they jostle us, these women, with their timid little flutterings when we are trying to put a case before them in our manlike way!—first spoiling their palate with all the sugar, so that they may not taste the powder.