"Where?" said he, in a sort of astonished way.
"I believe I could make you believe it," said I with more presence of mind, "if I stuck to it. But I can't come on Thursday. Let us say on Friday evening."
He insisted that Friday is unlucky, and we compromised on Wednesday. This conversation was on Tuesday.
"May I turn for just one look at my little wood nymph," said he, "when I get to the curve?"
Of course I said "Yes"—and he turned at the curve, and came striding back with such a light in his eyes that I had to allow him to kiss my hand again, under the pretense that I had got a sliver in my finger.
I went back Wednesday, and again and again, and sneaked off once with him to an orchestra concert, and it wasn't long before Billy knew that his little stenographer was willing to allow him to hope. But I refused to let him call it an engagement until he promised me that he would present the letter to the other Miss Blunt.
"Why, Dolly? Why, sweetheart?" he asked; for it had got to that stage now. Oh, it progressed with dizzying rapidity!
"Because," I replied, "you may like her better than you do me."
"Impossible!" he cried with a gesture absolutely tragic in its intensity. "I dislike her very name—'Miss Aurelia Blunt!'"
"That's unjust!" I cried, really angry, "Aurelia is a fine name; and she may have a pet name, you know."