"I suppose you have several more, like our friend Bertie, but you needn't tell them to me. If I had to use them every time I spoke to you, it might check my inspiration. Doris will do very nicely. Doris, Doris!"
"Are you making a song of it?"
"Yes, a hymn."
She looked at him curiously.
"You're a queer boy. I can't quite make you out. One minute you're serious, and the next—"
"If you're puzzled over me, picture my mental turmoil over you."
"Oh—me?" With a gesture she consigned herself to the uttermost ends of the universe.
The taxicab had stopped. They had reached the studio building without observing the fact. The expression on the features of the chauffeur suggested that if they wanted to sit still all day they could do it, but that it would not be his personal choice. Doris held out her hand.
"Good-by," she said gently. "And thank you. I'm really more—appreciative—than I seem."
Laurie's look expressed more surprise than he had ever really experienced over anything.