"Oh, do come to the point, Norman. You're getting as long-winded as one of the old almshouse women. When did you call Margaret Margaret? That's the important thing."
"Yes, I know it is. It was a thrill, Pam. I didn't do it as if I'd done it by accident. I did it loud and bold—at least, not loud; I thought it would try the old Dutch too much. But it was all quite simple. When we said good-bye, I looked at her straight, and said: 'Good-bye, Margaret.'"
"I think it was rather bold—if not crude."
"No, dear; not crude. Not crude at all. I put a world of meaning into it—the auld hackneyed phrase, which may mean so little and may mean so much."
Pamela laughed. "I don't believe you're in love with her at all, if you can make fun of it," she said.
"How little you know, Pam! I jest to hide my emotions. I've fed on that sweet moment ever since."
"You've told me of other moments rather like it. I suppose her eyes dropped before yours."
"They did not. That's where she's different from all other girls—except you."
"Thanks awfully, Norman. I'll try and keep my eyes from dropping if it ever happens to me. But from what you've said before I thought they ought to drop. What did she do then—or say?"