After supper that night they did go to walk; and if Rosina’s cousin came abroad with a mission he certainly went in for fulfilling it vigorously.
“Who wrote you about him, anyhow?” she demanded at last, when her patience was nearly exhausted by the mercilessness of his cross-examination. She was inwardly furious at whoever had done so, but it seemed wisdom to conceal her fury—for the present at least.
“You can’t travel about all summer with the same man everlastingly at your heels, without other people’s seeing him as well as yourself.”
“But some one person must have written. It can’t be that several people would bother to.”
“You won’t ever know who wrote, so don’t you fret.”
They were crossing the Max-Joseph Platz diagonally, and a light flashing from a passing trolley seemed to suddenly illuminate her brain.
“I bet I do know,” she cried.
“I bet you don’t.”
“It was a man; now wasn’t it?”