Bert. Well, that’s cool.
Bobby. I just wanted to see if it was as pretty as the one I had for Mamma, and Uncle Bert came in quick, and I didn’t want him to catch me looking at it, so I dodged behind the portière. And he talked out loud to himself, and said it was the fortieth one he’d sent her, and I just thought thirty-nine was enough to get from one man, and I wished I could get a chance to change ’em, just for fun, so when Uncle Bert was called to the ’phone——
Uncle B. So that’s when you did it! I thought I hadn’t sealed that envelope!
Bobby. So I slipped yours out, and Bert’s in, and sealed it, and dodged back. Then I fixed the other back there. They weren’t valentines, though, either of ’em—just poetry, with a fancy border, but both of ’em begun “Dearest Ellie,” and ended “Yours forever, Bert,” so I don’t see why one wasn’t as good as the other. Bert’s was the best, though, really, ’cause any one could understand it, but yours was just rhymes and long words, without any sense that I could see.
Bert. You little scamp! Don’t you know it’s dishonorable to read other folks’ letters?
Bobby. They weren’t letters. They were valentines. How was I to know that men were so silly as to write letters that way? When I want to get married I shall just walk up to the one I want and tell her so.
Uncle B. Right you are, Bobby. If I’d done so, I’d have been a married man all these years, instead of a lonely old bach.
Bert. I believe he’s right myself. I’m off to try my luck. If she says “No,” the whole family will know I’m jilted, thanks to my small brother. Wish me good luck, mother mine.
Mrs. W. Indeed I do, my boy. Never fear. If I have read Eloise’s eyes aright lately, we’ll congratulate you in the morning.