'But you mustn't be silly. This is only the reaction from Marian.'
'It's nothing of the sort,' he blurted, putting aside her hand. 'I—I really do—I love you. You're different from any other girl I ever met.'
'My dear, you mustn't say such things. You know you don't love me as you will the right girl when you meet her.'
He got out of the chair by getting over its arm. 'I beg your pardon,
Elise,' he said, not without a certain shy dignity. 'I meant every word
I said—but I suppose there's some one else.'
'Only a dream-man, Horace.'
'What about that American?'
'What—American?' Her agitation was something she could hardly have explained.
'That author-fellow at Roselawn. He was frightfully keen on you. I remember half-a-dozen times when he would be talking to us, and if you came in he'd go as mum as an oyster, and just follow you with his eyes. Is he the chap, Elise?'
'Good gracious!'—she forced a laugh— 'why, I don't even know where he is.'
'Don't you? He's in London; I can tell you that much. Last month in France I ran across that Doosenberry-Jewdrop fellow—-you know—the futurist artist.'