“Well,” said he, “I had a hunch you might need a new rig for the summer Votes campaign, or something. I thought maybe you'd want the very latest Berber styles, and would ask her to send a tip over. Then I thought you'd string her the local gossip, how Mrs. Byrd's baby will be born in October, and you don't think her looking as fit as she might. You want a cute rattle for it from Paris, or something. Get the idea?”
“You think she doesn't know?”
“I think the kid's about as harmless as a short-circuited wire, but I think she's a sport at bottom. My dope is, if there's anything to this proposition, then she doesn't know.” He rose to go.
“Wallace, you are certainly a bright boy,” said Constance, holding out her hand. “The missive shall be despatched.”
“Moreover,” said Mac, turning at the door, “Mary's worried—a little cheering up won't hurt her any.”
“I'll come out,” said Constance'. “What a shame it is—I'm so fond of them both.”
“Yes, it's a mean world—but we have to keep right on smiling. Good night,” said he.
“Good night,” called Constance. “You dear, good soul,” she added to herself.