“Good thing I can get groceries at wholesale!” he bantered. “Else I'd never dare ask you to visit me!”
Missy returned his smile, grateful that the matter of her appetite might serve to keep him jolly a little while longer. Perhaps he didn't even suspect, yet. DID he suspect? She couldn't forbear a tentative question:
“What seems to be the matter with Aunt Isabel, Uncle Charlie?”
“Why, didn't I tell you she has a headache?'
“Oh! a headache.” She was silent a second; then, as if there was something strange about this malady, she went on: “Did she SAY she had a headache?”
“Of course, my dear. It's a pretty bad one. I guess it must be the weather.” It was hot. Uncle Charlie had taken off his coat and was in his shirt sleeves—she was pleased to note it was a silken shirt; little beads of perspiration stood out on his forehead, and on his head where it was just beginning to get bald. Somehow, the fact that he looked so hot had the effect of making her feel even more tender toward him. So, though she thirsted for information, not for the world would she have aroused his suspicions by questions. And she made her voice very casual, when she finally enquired:
“By the way, that Mr. Saunders who brought us home is awfully handsome. Sort of gallant looking, don't you think?”
Uncle Charlie laughed; then shook his finger at her in mock admonition.
“Oh, Missy! You've fallen, too?”
Missy gulped; Uncle Charlie had made an unwitting revelation! But she tried not to give herself away; still casual, she asked: