“Huh! I doubt it. But—try. It would be such a novel sensation. Why, woman alive, if it weren’t for my sensations I’d be as wooden-y as you are. Patterson, I’m going to Albuquerque.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Oh! you exasperating creature! But—I’ve just come from there. A few weeks ago, on our way back from California. That’s the name of that curious old town that’s so antique on one side and so horribly new on the other. Yes, I’m going to Al-bu-quer-que. Why don’t you ask me what for?”
“You’ll be sure to tell me, directly, ma’am.”
“Humph! You are impertinent. I have always known it. I consider you so when you don’t get excited.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am.”
“No, you’re not. Not a bit sorry. You didn’t get excited even when I told you I’d bought our tickets for a trip around the world. Nothing on the trip excited you. Even when I talked anarchy in Russia and had to keep my tongue so still afterward. You’re not excited now, yet—if I chose—I could say that which would make even your smooth hair stand up and ruffle itself.”
“I dare say so, ma’am.”
“Patterson, am I a happy woman?”
“I’m afraid not, ma’am.”