"Oh, you did!"—a wry smile flickered on her father's lips. "A week ago, eh? And what does Jean say?"
"Jean doesn't say anything," replied Myrna complacently. "He doesn't know anything about it—it wasn't necessary until the time came. I haven't said anything to any one—until now."
"Well, upon my soul!" exclaimed her father. "You are beginning early with your future husband, Myrna! So then, we are both to be twisted around your finger—eh? I shall have to speak to Jean—warn him. For myself, of course, it's quite hopeless, I've given it up years ago; but as for Jean, that's quite another matter—it's all in starting right, with a firm hand, you know!" His eyes twinkled. "I'll have a little confidential talk with Jean."
"Don't be ridiculous, father!" she laughed. She rose from her chair. "Well, that's settled; and now I—"
"Eh—what? Settled! Nothing is settled! What's settled?" he spluttered anxiously.
"That we are going to America, of course," said Myrna sweetly. "You, and Jean, and I."
"Now, see here, Myrna," protested her father, with what he meant for severity, "a trip to America is all very well, but it isn't the sort of thing one decides on the spur of the moment."
"Of course it isn't!"—Myrna's eyebrows went up archly. "Didn't I tell you that I have been arranging it for a whole week? I was only waiting for cable replies to some of my letters before speaking to you, and—"
"And of course as you have not overlooked minor details, I suppose we sail sometime next week!" her father interrupted with mild sarcasm.
"No," said Myrna placidly. "From Havre, the day after to-morrow, by the Lorraine."