“You don't——” Russell began, and his look was one of alarm. “You haven't taken up——”
She understood his apprehension and responded merrily, “Oh, murder, no! You mean you're afraid I break out sometimes in a piece of cheesecloth and run around a fountain thirty times, and then, for an encore, show how much like snakes I can make my arms look.”
“I SAID you were a mind-reader!” he exclaimed. “That's exactly what I was pretending to be afraid you might do.”
“'Pretending?' That's nicer of you. No; it's not my mania.”
“What is?”
“Oh, nothing in particular that I know of just now. Of course I've had the usual one: the one that every girl goes through.”
“What's that?”
“Good heavens, Mr. Russell, you can't expect me to believe you're really a man of the world if you don't know that every girl has a time in her life when she's positive she's divinely talented for the stage! It's the only universal rule about women that hasn't got an exception. I don't mean we all want to go on the stage, but we all think we'd be wonderful if we did. Even Mildred. Oh, she wouldn't confess it to you: you'd have to know her a great deal better than any man can ever know her to find out.”
“I see,” he said. “Girls are always telling us we can't know them. I wonder if you——”
She took up his thought before he expressed it, and again he was fascinated by her quickness, which indeed seemed to him almost telepathic. “Oh, but DON'T we know one another, though!” she cried.