“What makes you think that?” he asked.
“My dear, it’s obvious to a woman’s eyes. I always told you that what you needed was to fall in love. You don’t do wool-work any more; you walk instead of sitting in an easy-chair. Some day, if you go on like this, you will play golf.”
“Gracious! Am I as bad as that?” exclaimed he, startled into an irony that gave his case away.
Alice clapped her hands delightedly.
“Ah! I am right then!” she cried. “My dear, do tell me who she is? Shall I go and call on her? Have I ever seen her?”
Oliver felt a curious diplomatic pleasure in giving true information which he knew would deceive.
“Yes; I feel sure you have seen her,” he said, remembering that Alice had her dresses made at the shop where his divinity deified the window. “I can’t say that you know her.”
“Oh, who is she?” cried Alice. “Is she a girl? Is she a woman? Will she marry you?”
“No; I don’t suppose so,” said he.
Alice’s face fell.