“Oh,” she said, “HE isn't interesting. That's his trouble!”
“You mean his trouble not to—”
She interrupted me, speaking with sudden, surprising energy, “I mean he's a man of no imagination.”
“No imagination!” I exclaimed.
“None in the world! Not one ounce of imagination! Not one grain!”
“Then who,” I cried—“or what—is Simpledoria?”
“Simple—what?” she said, plainly mystified.
“Simpledoria.”
“Simpledoria?” she repeated, and laughed. “What in the world is that?”
“You never heard of it before?”