She gave a cry of dismay. “Godfrey!” she exclaimed. “Isn’t it a shame!” Then, rushing to the bell, “I’ll have my things got ready. I’ll go back with you. You shan’t be left alone, dearest.”
I seated myself. “Don’t ring,” I said. “Wait till we’ve talked the matter over.”
“I see you can’t really believe—even yet,” cried she laughingly. “I must convince you.” And she rang the bell.
“When your maid comes, send her away,” said I. “Don’t order her to pack. You can’t go with me.”
She looked at me anxiously. “How solemn you are!” she cried. “Has something gone wrong in that business?”
“Nothing,” said I. The maid came, was sent away. Edna moved toward me, would have sat in my lap or on the arm of my chair had I not prevented her by rising on the pretext of lighting a cigarette.
“You are very—very—strange,” said she. Then advancing toward me and gazing into my face, “Godfrey, there wasn’t any truth in that item—was there?” She looked like a sweet, lovely slip of a girl, all tenderness and sincerity.
“I’ve come to discuss our affairs—not malicious newspaper gossip,” said I, fighting for my usual manner of good-humored raillery. “First, tell me what is the meaning of this outburst of affection for me? Aren’t you satisfied with the settlements?”
“Oh, Godfrey, what a cynic you are!” laughed she. Then with an air of earnestness that certainly was convincing, she said: “Can’t you feel that I love you?”
“I cannot,” replied I blandly. “On the contrary, I know that you care nothing about me. So let’s talk business as we always have.”