“Say, Dorothy!” cried Beatrice Cuming, sweeping into Miss Brandon’s apartment with the energy and enthusiasm of a miniature cyclone; “I’m so glad to catch you alone—so glad! I was afraid somebody would be here and I wouldn’t have a chance to talk to you right away.”
Dorothy shifted her fair head from its position on the cushions of her easy-chair and turned her blue eyes upon the speaker.
“Why, what has happened, Trixy?” she asked with languid interest. “It must, of course, be something of much importance, considering it’s almost an hour since you left me.”
“An hour!” exclaimed Beatrice; “let me tell you, a whole catalogue of wonderful things can happen in an hour. And so it is here. I’ve a whole bookful to tell you—a romance—a love affair—a tragedy!”
“Your introduction is certainly promising, Trixy, dear,” remarked Dorothy with the same languid interest, “but it’s rather lengthy. Remember, long introductions to romances have been out of fashion since the days of our great-grandmothers. Wouldn’t it be well to begin your story?”
“I don’t know just how to begin it,” answered Beatrice ingenuously, “it’s so interesting. But,” she added suddenly, “you’re quite sure you meant what you told me the other day?”
“Told you the other day?” inquired Dorothy, puzzled; “told you about what?”
“About your not caring anything for him, of course?”
“And who may ‘him’ be?” asked Dorothy, with an ever so slight change of voice.
“Why, Captain Mortimer, of course!”