'I mean what I told you—how my cousin, Cissie Cavanack,' he smiled a little as he invented this name, 'came up to town, chose the wrong hat, didn't know what to do with it—and, you know!'
'I could tell her all that, of course.'
'All right,' said Vincy, putting the other hat—the old one—in the box.' Where shall we dine?'
'Oh, Vincy, I think you're very sweet to me, but how late dare I get back to Ravenscourt Park?'
'Why not miss the eight-five train?—then you'll catch the quarter to ten and get back at about eleven.'
'Which would you rather I did?'
'Well, need you ask?'
'I don't know, Vincy. I have a curious feeling sometimes. I believe you're rather glad when I've gone—relieved!'
'Well, my dear,' he answered, 'look how you worry all the time! If you'd only have what I call a quiet set-down and a chat, without being always on the fidget, always looking either at the glass or at the clock, one might not have that feeling.'
Her colour rose, and tears came to her eyes. 'Oh, then you are glad when I'm gone!' She pouted. 'You don't care for me a bit, Vincy,' she said, in a plaintive voice.