"But he is so dear and nice, and though he has not proposed—still I know he is infatuated with me—and when he finishes school—he is a senior now, you know, and then he can marry if he likes."
Doris looked up, a sudden shining through the clouds. "He—what?"
"He graduates this year. He is a senior. But we are not engaged, not by any means. Only sometimes I think maybe I am not too young to fall in love. Bob Alden, you know."
Doris leaned weakly back in her chair.
"Are you joking?" she whispered with dry lips.
"Oh, Doris, I wouldn't do such a thing."
"Am I just imagining things or—"
"Yes, I think you are."
"Oh, Rosalie, you bad little girl, what have you done? I really believe Mr. MacCammon likes you."
"Likes me! Ye gods, aren't some folks blind? I can always tell when men are stuck on me long before they can tell it themselves, but some folks are so slow. You are a stupid girl, Doris, I have no patience with you. Poor dear Mr. MacCammon and the bishop, too—both of them—I think it is downright reprehensible, to dangle a bishop and a psychological philosopher at the same time. I wouldn't do such a thing."