“Mamma trusts you will excuse her this morning. She says she will be glad to see you when you come again.” She seated herself on a divan near the window, a trifle out of the glaring light of the August sun. She held in her hand a fan and the bits of paper had disappeared. “Isn't it dreadfully warm?”
“Looks like rain, too,” said he, briefly. Then, with new animation: “Tell me, what was in that letter?”
“Nothing but nonsense,” she replied, smiling serenely, for she was again a diplomat.
“How dare you! How dare you write nonsense to me? But, really, I'd like to know what it was. You'll admit I have a right to be curious.”
“It pleases me to see you curious. I believe it is the first time I ever saw you interested in anything. Quite novel, I assure you.”
“Don't you mean to tell me?”
“Assuredly—not.”
“Well, I think it's a roaring shame to write anything to a fellow that he can't be allowed to read. I wouldn't treat you that way.”
“I know you wouldn't. You are too good, and too sensible, and too considerate, and all the other kind of too's, while I am just an unaccountable ninny. If you ever did anything crazy you wouldn't like to have it found out, would you?”
“By all means! Then I could take treatment for the malady. Lean forward, Dorothy, so that I can see your eyes. That's right! Now, look at me squarely. Will you tell me what was in that letter?” She returned his gaze steadily, almost mockingly.