Ethel laughed. “A night up here will cure that. You’ll be content to loll by to-morrow.”
“Why, I wrote on the way up,” said he.
“Really!” said Cherry. “What did you do with it? Hand it to the conductor by mistake, for your ticket?” she added saucily.
“No, but do you know, whenever I ride any distance, I feel that I must write something because money spent on tickets seems money thrown away.”
“Dear me, is it a poet speaking or a thrifty Yankee.”
Cherry spoke to him as if she had known him all her life. I did not know but he would take offence, but he was looking at her when she spoke, and that made all the difference in the world. Ethel said one day that Cherry’s eyes apologised for whatever daring might be in her words.
“I’m very thrifty. I have need to be,” said Sibthorp earnestly, and as I knew that his income for the preceding year had been something in the neighbourhood of four hundred dollars, I flashed a warning signal to Cherry, and asked him to do the thing that would make him the happiest.
“After dinner suppose you read us the stuff you’ve been writing.”
“How disrespectful,” said Cherry. “Stuff!”
“Why, if it wouldn’t bore you?” said he, smiling at Cherry.