It is this way with me, that often I think of the great thing to do after I get home and into bed. But it came to me suddenly—an inspiration that made me a little dizzy for a moment—and I stepped into the story.
"I forgot a part of my errand," I said, "when we were—interrupted. I want to subscribe to your paper, right away."
Anthy looked at me keenly for a moment, her colour slowly rising.
"Whom shall we send it to?" she asked in the dryest, most businesslike voice, as though subscriptions were flowing in all the time.
For the life of me I couldn't think of anybody. I never was more at sea in my life. I don't know yet how it occurred to me, but I said, suddenly, with great relief:
"Why, send it to Doctor McAlway."
"He is already a subscriber, one of our oldest," she responded crisply.
We stood there, looking at each other desperately.
"Well," said I, "send it—send it to my uncle—in California."
At that Anthy laughed; we both laughed. But she was evidently very determined.