"Promise me," I said instead, "never to wear a common-sense shoe."
She stared at me with brows a trifle raised.
"Of course it will displease Mrs. Eubanks, but there is still a better reason for it."
The brows went farther up at this until they were hardly to be detected under the broad rim of her garden hat.
Her answer was icy, even for an "Indeed?"—quite in her best Lansdale manner.
"Yes, 'indeed!'" I retorted somewhat rudely, "but never mind—it's not of the least consequence. What I meant to say was this—about those pictures of people, you remember."
"I remember perfectly, and I've concluded that it's all nonsense—all of it, you understand."
"That's queer—so have I." Had I been a third person and an observer, I would doubtless have sworn that Miss Lansdale was more surprised than pleased by this remark of mine.
"I haven't had your picture at all," I went on; "it was a picture of some one else, and I hadn't thought to look at it for a long time—had forgotten it utterly, in fact. That's how I came to think I knew your face before I knew you."
"I told you it was nonsense!" and she snipped off a rose with a kind of miniature brusqueness.