When they went out, Edith seated herself in the chair where John sat when he took down her father's dictations. John sat in her father's chair at the desk, looking so near overwhelmed at the turn of things, since morning, that he felt like sinking through the floor, or going straight up to the ceiling and out through the roof to some other country. As Mr. Jarney and Miss Barton went out the door, John turned and looked at Edith. He blushed; she blushed.
"This is certainly an unusual situation," said John.
"It more equals our encounter that night," she replied.
"But under pleasanter circumstances," he returned.
"If we had that old umbrella of mine, how realistic we might make it," she said, giving a little laugh, and sinking back into the depths of the cushioned chair, folding her gloved hands as though perfectly at ease, although showing some timidity of expression in her conversation.
"I have it yet," he said, as he took up a pen loaded with ink, as if it were his intention to commence signing the letters but looking at Edith shyly.
"Yet?" she raised her eyebrows.
"I put it away among my other keepsakes," he answered, turning now as if he really did intend to execute his "John Hancock" on the letters.
"What for?" asked Edith, tapping a finger on the arm of her chair.
"Oh, as a hobby; I always try to keep something to remember any unusual happening in my life," said he, forgetting to sign the name of "Hiram Jarney."