“Certainly!” she replied. “I know it was not you. And I’ve told you it wasn’t Steve.”
“But it must have been somebody.”
“Do you doubt me, Barry?”
She had been calling him by his given name of late, and had given him permission to call her by hers.
“N-no. Only the thing’s mighty funny. Jane Chichester swore she couldn’t be mistaken.”
Mary Bradley laughed again.
“Ah!” she said; “then it was Miss Chichester who witnessed that surprising exhibition of womanly immodesty. Don’t you think she was giving rein to her imagination?”
“She might have been,” admitted Barry. “She does imagine things sometimes. Do you know, I think she imagines, sometimes, that I’m really going to marry her.”
“But you’re not, are you, Barry?”
“Mrs. Bradley!—I mean Mary—how can you ask such a question when you know my only ambition is to marry you.”