"I've been trying to tell you for a quarter of an hour," he answered, "and I didn't know how to put it."
"But at last you didn't have to put it at all," she said laughingly; "it simply put itself, didn't it?"
"I am still wondering," he persisted gravely.
"Wondering if I know?" She spoke in the sweetly practical tone of one who is firmly resolved not to permit any nonsense. "Yes, I do know—that is, I know there are ways in which I might be useful to you."
"For instance?"
"Well, there are some little—some very little things I might tell you if we were friends—real friends," she made this plain, "just as two men might be."
"But the very last things two men would tell each other," he was laughing now, "are the little things—the things about slang and walking-sticks and oak furniture."
So he hadn't forgotten! The recollection of her impertinence confused her, and she hastened to make light of it by protesting gaily: "I was only joking. Of course, you didn't take that seriously."
"I don't know how much more seriously," he replied emphatically, "I could have taken it."
"But you haven't thought of it since?"