"Shall I ever learn to practice what mother always preaches," thought Irma, conscience-stricken lest she had disturbed Marion, "not to ask direct personal questions?"
Marion continued to walk up and down with his hands in his pockets. Then he stopped directly in front of Irma. "Tell me what was in your letters," he said abruptly. "I had none."
So surprised was Irma by Marion's interest, that at first she could hardly reply.
"Yes," he continued, dropping into a chair beside her, "I should like to hear about some one else's relations."
Then Irma found her voice, and prefacing her remarks with, "There really was not much news in the letters I had to-day," she soon found herself telling Marion all about home, about her father and mother, about Tessie and the boys and Mahala, and last, but not least, about Nap.
Marion listened attentively, occasionally making some comment that showed he was really interested in what Irma said.
Then, after perhaps half an hour, he rose as abruptly as he had sat down, and with a hasty "good night," went indoors.
"Yet after all I have told him, he didn't say a word about his own family. How queer he is!" thought Irma.