“That man couldn’t make a mud pie; he can’t whistle a tune; he can’t even tell the truth,” said the conductor of No. 8, indignantly.
“Oh, Mr. McGuire,” said the young lady, with a pretty show of surprise.
“Well, it’s true. I’m ashamed to say so, but it’s true; you must not believe a word he says.”
“Not one word?”
“Never. I don’t see how he made his wife believe he loved her.”
“Is he married, then?”
“Oh, yes. He’s as gentle as a nun and as harmless as a child, only don’t believe him. He lies just for the love of it, and never to injure any one. He ought to leave the road and devote himself to literature; he likes romancing. He calls his harmless bits of fiction ‘Novels Out of Print.’”
“He certainly has a ready and vivid imagination.”
Miss Landon sighed lightly. McGuire was handsome, and he had held her in his arms.
“Please take off that horrid woolly coat,” said Miss Landon, with a little shudder.