For some unexplainable reason Blynn’s humor failed him. He tried to talk with her on the strange themes she irrelevantly suggested, inwardly registering his protest at the changes of personality in people. Some of his best college chums had grown into impossible young-old men and the liveliest girls of his teens frequently developed into stupid matrons. Gorgas, he conjectured gloomily, was losing all her naturalness; her individual mind was being moulded in the common cast.
He turned his attention to Kate. She had not changed, save in so far as her delicate silk attire gave her a temporary flavor of blue china and tea roses.
“What is the good news out of Verona?” he inquired.
“Petruchio has not yet arrived,” she answered promptly.
“Ah! You are not shrewish enough. Katharina had a reputation for ugliness of temper.”
“Ask Gorgas,” she smiled. “She and I have some fearful fracases sometimes—not often, though.” She leaned back to get a good view of her sister. “Doesn’t she look lovely, tonight! It is so droll to see her in my gown. I hope I look as well in it. The child is growing up fast. Ah, me! She’s my age-warner. I shall be jealous of her soon.”
“I say, Allen,” Diccon called, “going to take that professorship at Holden?”
“Why, how under heaven did you know about that?” asked the astonished Blynn.
“Newspaper,” said Diccon. “We know everything; before it happens, too. Want me to run it in, front-page display?” he grinned.
“Bless my soul! Please don’t do anything like that, Diccon. It’s a small matter—big for me, of course—but of no public interest.”