He was a busy man, and he had stood up to go.
"I might—if it troubles you—be able to help you."
"Even," said Evie, "though you are not interested in my type?"
"Oh," cried Norma, "isn't that like you, Evie! You overheard the whole thing, and instead of having it out then and there, as I should have, you wait and give him a poisoned dig in the ribs when he's trying to be nice to you."
Evie repeated in exactly the same tone: "Even though you are not interested in my type?"
"I'm always interested in a case," he answered.
They exchanged unfriendly looks. Then he came to the sofa to say good-by to Aunt Georgy. She was rummaging for a pencil among the litter of papers and books beside her. She wanted to write down the name of his book, but he insisted very civilly on sending it to her.
When he and Norma had gone Aunt Georgy turned to Evie.
"I'm glad," she said, "that you did not tell them what your dream was about. They would have been sure to make something horrid out of it."