"Oh, but I do!" cried she.
"We'll see—in a few weeks or months," replied he.
The Burroughs party were rising. Josephine had choice of two ways to the door. She chose the one that took her past Norman and his bride. She advanced, beaming. Norman rose, took her extended hand. Said she:
"So glad to see you." Then, turning the radiant smile upon Dorothy, "And is this your wife? Is this the pretty little typewriter girl?"
Dorothy nodded—a charming, ingenuous bend of the head. Norman felt a thrill of pride in her, so beautifully unconscious of the treacherous attempt at insult. It particularly delighted him that she had not made the mistake of rising to return Josephine's greeting but had remained seated. Surely this wife of his had the right instincts that never fail to cause right manners. For Josephine's benefit, he gazed down at Dorothy with the proudest, fondest eyes. "Yes—this is she," said he. "Can you blame me?"
Josephine paled and winced visibly, as if the blow she had aimed at him had, after glancing off harmlessly, returned to crush her. She touched Dorothy's proffered hand, murmured a few stammering phrases of vague compliment, rejoined her friends. Said Dorothy, when she and Norman were settled again:
"I shall never like her. Nor she me."
"But you do like this cheese? Waiter, another bottle of that same."
"Why did she put you in such a good humor?" inquired his wife.
"It wasn't she. It was you!" replied he. But he refused to explain.