"It was at the Choral Society. And then they stopped my going—because he walked home with me one wet night."
"And you have never seen each other since?"
"Of course we have."
"And communicated by some means more romantic than the post?"
"It wasn't romantic. It was tennis-balls."
"Tennis-balls?"
"You cut a slit and squeeze it and put a note in, and it shuts up and no one notices it. It wasn't romantic at all. And I don't know why I should tell you anything about it."
"And then, I suppose, there were glances in church, and stolen meetings in the passionate hush of the rose-scented garden."
"There's nothing in the garden but geraniums," she said, "and we always talked over the wall—he used to stand on their chicken house, and I used to turn our dog kennel up on end and stand on that. You have no right to know anything about it, but it was not in the least romantic."