Virginia instantly bridled, and looked the picture of injured innocence.
“Certainly not!” she retorted. “Do you think that I would talk about such a delicate matter before others?”
“Oh no; I suppose not. But you could look wise and foolish at the same time when Maxwell’s name was mentioned, with a coy and kittenish air which 262 would suggest more than ten volumes of Mary Jane Holmes.”
“You are not very sympathetic, Mrs. Burke, when I am in deep trouble. I want your help, not ridicule and abuse.”
“Well, I am sorry for you, Virginia, in more ways than one. But really I’d like to know what reason you have to think that Donald Maxwell was ever in love with you; I suppose that’s what you mean.”
Virginia blushed deeply, as became a gentle maiden of her tender years, and replied:
“Oh, it is not a question of things which one can easily define. Love is vocal without words, you know.”
“Hm! You don’t mean that he made love to you and proposed to you through a phonograph? You know I had some sort of idea that love that was all wool, and a yard wide, and meant business, usually got vocal at times.”
“But Mr. Maxwell and I were thrown together in such an intimate way in parish work, you know.”
“Which did the throwing?”