"Do you know what I did with yours?" she asked, folding her arms.
"Consigned it to the garbage heap, I suppose," he replied, letting the ink fall off his pen to the spoilment of a letter.
"You are not a good guesser," she replied, her blue eyes sparkling. "It came near going there—but I have 'J. W.' as an ornament in my boudoir."
"I imagine it would be out of harmony with the rest of the decorations," he said, dropping more ink, and still neglecting to sign the name.
"It harmonizes with my sentiments on certain matters," she said.
"For instance?" He looked at her.
"Class distinction."
"What does mine signify?" attempting to sign, but only getting down the capital H.
"You," she looked to the floor.
"And yours?" Now interested.