"How do we know young Kennilworth's got a future?" I counter- checked.
"Because he makes so much noise about it I suppose," admitted my Husband.
"By which very same method," I grinned, "I deduct the fact that Ann Woltor has got a past,—inasmuch as she doesn't make the very slightest sound whatsoever concerning it."
"You concede no personal reticence in the world?" quizzed my Husband.
"Yes, quite a good deal," I admitted. "But most of it I honestly believe is due to sore throat. A normal throat keeps itself pretty much lubricated I've noticed by talking about itself."
"Herself," corrected my Husband.
"Himself," I compromised.
"But this Ann Woltor has told you that she came from New Zealand," scored my Husband.
"Oh, no, she hasn't!" I contradicted. "It was the hair- dresser who suggested New Zealand. All Ann Woltor has ever told me was that she was going to Alaska! Anybody's willing to tell you where he's going! But the person who never tells you where he's been—! The person who never by word, deed or act correlates to-day with yesterday! The Here with the There—! I've been home with her twice to her room! I've watched her unpack the Alaska trunk! Not a thing in it older than this winter! Not a shoe nor a hat nor a glove that confides anything! No scent of fir-balsam left over from a summer vacation! No photograph of sister or brother! Yet it's rather an interesting little room, too,—awfully small and shabby after the somewhat plushy splendor of the hairdressing job—but three or four really erudite English Reviews on the table, a sprig of blue larkspur thrust rather negligently into a water glass, and a man's——"
"Blue larkspur in January?" demanded my Husband. "How—how old is this—this Woltor person?"