"My dearest Betty—" Bob began, then strode about the room in search of further inspiration. "Have you got that?"
"My dearest Betty," repeated Miss Thompson.
"That doesn't sound very stiff and formal, does it?" laughed Bob. "You wait a minute. Now, then." And he went on with suppressed merriment, "What in the world has become of you? I would have written oftener only I've been having such a lively time that I haven't had a moment. That'll make her sit up, eh?"
"Perhaps!" answered Betty demurely, as she clicked off the words.
"I met a dream of a girl in New York," he continued, "a brunette, and another on the steamer, a blonde—that makes two dreams—but they weren't either of them in your class, Betty, dear?" Bob smiled complacently. "How's that, Miss Thompson?"
"Is it true?" asked Betty.
"About not being in her class? Well, I should say so. She's the finest, gamest, bulliest little sport you ever saw. Come to think of it, I don't believe I'll tell her about those other two girls I met. What's the use?"
"Do you think she would care?"
"Maybe not, but it sounds a little fresh and I wouldn't hurt Betty's feelings for the world. We'll cut the letter out, Miss Thompson. I'll write one by hand."
"Very well," obeyed the other, and drawing the sheet from the machine, she crumpled it up and threw it into the waste basket.