“You’re a poor person to risk guesses about,” admitted Mrs. Manton, “So you may have the fun of telling me.”
“Well, then,” said Freda, “I’m in love.”
“In love, my dear!” exclaimed the landlady, “With what?”
“A man, Gertrude.”
“Never!” Mrs. Manton shook her head slowly as she stepped in front of Freda to inspect the results of her handicraft. “Do tell me what it’s like,” she implored.
“Well,” said Freda, “you admire the man’s style from the first—his voice, his looks. His boots are polished. His fingernails are clean, and not polished. His tie is carefully knotted, his trousers well in press. You like him, but you’re not in love yet.”
“I should say, not yet,” Gertrude agreed, half cynically.
“Then, whenever you talk with him he has a faculty of understanding you. You don’t have to repeat or explain, Gertrude. You’ve always wanted to talk with people who get you. Isn’t that right?”
“It’s as sure as mud.”
“And then,” continued Freda enthusiastically. “It works the other way, too. You find it easy to understand him. His broadcasting machine is in the same wave-length as your radio-receiver. But even then you’re not in love.”