But it was certain that she was put out about something. I would just have to play her easy and try to find out what it was. I remembered hearing Pugsley say—and he has had no end of experience with them—that when women are put out they expect you to find out what it is, no matter how devilishly improbable or unreasonable it may be.
And just then I remembered another clever idea of Pugsley's—what he said was a corking good way of diverting their minds.
"I say, you know," I said suddenly—and though I threw a whole lot of enthusiasm into my face in carrying out his idea, I didn't have to try very hard—"I think that's a ripping gown. White is ever so much more your style than—than—"
By Jove, I swallowed just in time! But it had roused her. I could see her brighten.
"Oh!" she said. "Let me see—what is it you remember?" And she kind of muttered, "Perhaps I can tell from that—"
She paused expectantly.
"Oh, I say, you know!" And I twirled the hat, feeling a bit rattled. Why the deuce did she want to rub it in?
"But I want you to tell me." Her beautiful eyes were teasing.
"You know—in black." I twirled the hat faster.
"Black!" She stared, her exquisite lips standing apart like the two petals of a rose. "Why, I never wore black in my life. You know you never saw me in black."