She nodded. "That's it. We're simply matches—and most of us of the poor sputtering kind that burns with a bad odor and goes out right away. A very inferior quality of matches."
"Yes," repeated Norman, "it's the man who does the whole business."
A mocking smile curled her lips. "I knew you weren't in love with Josephine."
He stared gloomily at his cigar.
"But you're going to marry her?"
"I'm in love with her," he said angrily. "And I'm going to marry her."
She eyed him shrewdly. "Fred—are you in love with some one else?"
He did not answer immediately. When he did it was with a "No" that seemed the more emphatic for the delay.
"Oh, just one of your little affairs." And she began to poke fun at him. "I thought you had dropped that sort of thing for good and all. I hope Josie won't hear of it. She'd not understand. Women never do—unless they don't care a rap about the man. . . . Is she on the stage? I know you'll not tell me, but I like to ask."
Her brother looked at her rather wildly. "Let's go home," he said. He was astounded and alarmed by the discovery that his infatuation had whirled him to the lunacy of longing to confide—and he feared lest, if he should stay on, he would blurt out his disgraceful secret. "Waiter, the bill."