“Won't you write a few lines?”
“I 'm not sure,—I 'll not promise. I'm a bad penman, but my wife will write, I 've no doubt. Say all sorts of affectionate and dutiful things to the Chief for me; tell him I went away in despair at not being able to say good-bye; he likes that style of thing, does n't he?”
“I don't think he cares much for 'that style of thing,'” said she, with a saucy smile.
“What a capital mimic you are! Do you know I am just beginning to suspect that you are, for all your quiet simplicity of manner, a deuced deep one. Am I right?”
She shook her head, but made no reply.
“Not that I 'd like you the less for it,” said he, eagerly; “on the contrary, we 'd understand each other all the better; there's nothing like people talking the same language, eh?”
“I hope you'll not lose your train,” said she, looking at her watch; “I am half-past four.”
“A broad hint,” said he, laughing; “bye-bye,—à bientôt.”