“If he would trust me it would be more to the point,” sighed his wife.
“But it would be most so,” pursued her caller, “if you’d only let me finish what I want to say. I’ve got a treat for you.”
“O!” exclaimed Mrs. Derwall. “A s’prise?”
“Yes. Guess what it is.”
“A matinée?”
“Something like it, only nicer. Not that everybody would think so; but people who know would. You will.” And Mrs. Hopp beamed upon her friend with an expression in which the freemasonry of the truly superior outdid the archness of her who would incite to curiosity.
As it happened, this was an implication which never had a propitious effect upon Mrs. Derwall.
“Julie, you are so mystifying,” she plaintively said. But she evinced so small a disposition to penetrate the mystery that her friend was compelled to resume her tactics.
“It’s not just one of those silly plays, with a pretty boy to play it,” she uttered solemnly. “It’s really literary, Sophie.”
“O my!” cried Mrs. Derwall with mediocre enthusiasm. “What have I done, Julie, to deserve this?”