"Will you kindly tell me"—Mrs. Wilbur sat up in bed and looked across at her husband, bewildered—"what the man was talking about?"
"Can't you possibly think it out?" asked Charles Wilbur quietly.
She frowned into the darkness. "You don't mean—he teases Diana about being goddess of the moon—" She paused.
"You're getting warm, dear, very warm," remarked her husband.
"Why, Charlie, it's impossible!" Then hotly: "He is very wise. Nothing would induce Diana to think of him."
"You wouldn't like it, eh?"
"Why, the idea! It's an impossible idea! I was a little apprehensive at first, when I saw how attractive he was and knew that she had been up here alone with him so long, but I soon saw there was nothing in it, and you should hear what Diana says—"
"Yes, I know young girls say a great many things besides their prayers."
"Well, what did you say to him when he answered you like that?" Mrs. Wilbur's tone was tense.
"I told him that he might think it over, and that I should be glad to have him come."