“Well, Edith, how do you like him?” she asked, when they were alone.
“He’s awfully breezy, isn’t he? I imagine he’s very sincere and straightforward.”
“Emerson’s as straight as they make them. No foolishness about him. We’re engaged—almost, that is. Don’t let on to mother.”
“Engaged! Not really! When did he ask you?”
“Coming up from the station.”
“He certainly didn’t lose any time,” observed Edith, laughing. “Did you accept him?”
“Of course not. Now he’ll have to do it all over again. To-night, perhaps, down on the rocks. I shouldn’t think of accepting a man in an automobile. It isn’t romantic enough.”
“Didn’t he feel discouraged?”
“Not a bit. You couldn’t discourage Emerson with a pile-driver. Anyway—I guess he understood.” She smiled quietly to herself.