"Hello," I said. "How long have you been here?"
"Hours," he answered. "Mavis Denton, you talk in your sleep, you do, somethin' awful!"
I sat up abruptly.
"What did I say?" I demanded.
"First you snored some—"
"I don't snore!"
"You do,—Bill told me so. 'Wright,' he says to me, 'don't you never marry a girl who snores.'"
There was no use arguing with Wright in a silly mood.
"Go on," I said, resigned to heaven alone knew what eccentricities of speech and disclosure.
"I'm going. First you snores a bit, as I remarked before I was so rudely interrupted. Who raised you, anyway, Mavis? Don't you know little girls must never contradict, interrupt, or otherwise distract old gentlemen? Well, after the snore—musical, it was—'Bill!' you says, entreating-like—'Bill,' you says, right out loud. And then, just like a movie heroine, 'Never!' you shouts, 'Never!', and you clinched your hands and ground your teeth as no lady had oughter!"