“You haven’t said anything about Horace. Did he enjoy the evening?”
Charlotte, with her eyes on Rhoda’s face, opened her lips to make a merry answer, hesitated, then darted at her sister a searching glance.
“Rhoda,” she exclaimed, “Horace has been telling you about it!”
“About what?” Rhoda looked up, the suspicion of a smile at the corners of her mouth.
“O, la! About it, I said, didn’t I? Oh, Rhoda, it was such fun!” Charlotte’s voice was suffused with laughter. “But it’s nothing to make Horace propose. Why, Rhoda, you could do it!”
Rhoda laid her stockinged hand, in whose covering she was searching for possible holes, in her lap and turned serious eyes upon Charlotte’s face, alight with merriment. “Do you really think so, sister? But, then, I don’t think I should want him to.”
Charlotte looked at her in surprise. “You wouldn’t, Rhoda? That’s queer! But you are queer, anyway! The first thing we know you’ll be wearing short hair and bloomers and going to woman’s rights conventions! But please don’t, until after I’m married, anyway, so I won’t belong to the family any more!”
“If you’re going to marry Horace right away I shan’t have to wait very long, shall I?”
“Who said I was going to marry Horace? Did he?”
“No. He said he—hoped you wouldn’t!”