“If anybody else in this world but you was to talk like that I know what I should think.”
“Well, what?” inquired the amused lady.
“They were not possessed of common sense,” said Owlet gloomily.
“Very few people are so happily endowed according to your standard.”
The elevator came down, with a little jar, to the basement floor, and Roma led her small friend out into the hall and through to the restaurant.
“We are not mad with each other, are we?” inquired Owlet as they seated themselves at one of the remote corner tables.
“Why, certainly not! We are the best of friends always.”
“I’m glad of that, because I only told the truth, and it was for your good, too; because I do love you, really.”
The breakfast bill of fare laid before them by the obsequious waiter arrested attention and stopped the conversation; and after the meal was served Owlet was too much engaged with her milk, bread and eggs to favor Roma with any more “wisdom in solid chunks.”
When they returned to the parlor upstairs they found Mr. Merritt there, waiting for Roma.