“‘So young, my lord, and true.’”
“Well,” said Hobby resignedly, “I suppose we’ll have to quarrel, of course. They all do. But I don’t know how to go about it. What do I say next?”
“I might as well tell you the worst, angelest pieface. You ought to know what a shocking horrid little creature your brown girl really is. You won’t ever tell—honest-to-goodness, cross-your-heart-and-hope-to-die?”
“Never.”
“Say it, then.”
“Honest-to-goodness, cross-my-heart-and-hope-to-die.”
She buried her face on his breast. “I dreamed about him last night, Hobby. Wasn’t that queer? I hadn’t thought of him before for months—weeks, anyhow.”
“A week, maybe?” suggested Hobby.
“Oh, more than that! Two weeks, at the very least. I—I hate to tell you,” she whispered. “I—I dreamed I liked him almost as much as I do you!”
“Why, you brazen little bigamist!”