“Oh, he wouldn’t have said it before you unless he expected you to repeat it, dear. You must tell me what it is, or I shall fancy it was not really unpleasant, and, really I’ve had so many compliments of late that it will be quite a change. I am actually afraid that Cla—a friend who thinks too well of me—will make me vain, and that—”
“Impossible, dear. By the way, I hear that Clarence Lighthed comes to see you occasionally now, and—”
“Not oftener than once in twenty-four hours, dear.”
“Yes. And really he has been so devoted to so many girls that—”
“It is a wonder that he has never thought of you! Why so it is, now that I think of it. But never mind, there may be a chance for you yet. Pardon me, you were about to repeat something you had heard about me, and I’m afraid I interrupted you.”
“Was I? Dear me, I have quite forgotten what it was; nothing very important, I’m sure.”
“Very true. By the way, I heard something about you the other day, too. It was extremely complimentary—so much so indeed, that you will think I am trying to flatter you, if I repeat it.”
“Indeed? Oh, I remember now what I was about to tell you. It was—so you really heard something nice about poor little me?”
“Yes, I really did. I’ll tell you after you have finished your story. I really must not interrupt you again.”
“Yes, Ja—I mean the man I know—said the other day that he thought you—now you mustn’t mind this, at all, Dorothy; I told him at once that nobody else had ever said such a thing of you.”