“It is nice to see you so easily pleased. But just as a matter of reasonableness,” added Miss Velrose, “a past tense might have two meanings.”
“True,” I admitted. “It might. I admit that. But when one alternative is supported by unmistakable signs why consider the other? Look at Rollington.”
She bit her lip, and did not turn her head. Rollington was sauntering up the path from the boathouse. He was endeavoring to look ennuyé.
“He is trying to look calm,” I said, “but it is a case of radiant repression. Rollington is a fine fellow. Sometimes the right thing happens. I am going to be more of an optimist than ever—even though you may never speak to me again.”
“There are several things,” said Miss Velrose very steadily, but with a little amused flutter of the lips, “which some one should say to you.”
“Oh, some one has!” I answered, getting up. “Don’t feel that you have to discipline me merely from a sense of duty.”
“I abandon you to your own conscience.”
“What cruelty!—you knowing that it is a Scotch conscience!”
“Your sophistry will help you out,” said Miss Velrose, in a voice as if she knew that Rollington was very near.
“I have at least one virtue,” I said. “I can keep a secret.”