Peter Ruff came down to his office with a single letter in his hand, bearing a French postmark. He returned his secretary’s morning greeting a little absently, and seated himself at his desk.
“Violet,” he asked, “have you ever been to Paris?”
She looked at him compassionately.
“More times than you, I think, Peter,” she answered.
He nodded.
“That,” he exclaimed, “is very possible! Could you get ready to leave by the two-twenty this afternoon?”
“What, alone?” she exclaimed.
“No—with me,” he answered.
She shut down her desk with a bang.
“Of course I can!” she exclaimed. “What a spree!”