“Grace,” said I, and came to a sudden stop. Yes, sitting down was decidedly better. It didn’t seem so formal, and your legs didn’t feel so wobbly. I sat down accordingly. “Grace,” said I once more; and then my throat went wrong, and I had to pause and cough.
“Yes,” said Grace meekly, “I s’pose my name’s Grace. Go on, Dimmy; it’s ever so interesting. But if it’s a joke, Dimmy, it’s not at all obvious. Just read those Bristol figures out, there’s a good chap.”
I picked up the telegram again, and called out solemnly,—
“R. C. Dimsdale, bowled Grace, none.”
Miss Grace’s steady gaze went through me, then came back and went through me again.
“Look here, Dimmy,” she said, with a deliberation that was both incisive and well weighed, “I’m not going to be ragged like this by you or anybody else. Give me that wire, and now you just cut. When I want to be bored, I read Punch.”
It was evident by the rigidity of her countenance that she saw not the remotest connection between what I had said and the terribly great matter that was overbalancing my mind.
“I must explain,” said I doggedly.
“I don’t think you will,” said she gravely; “that thing with a handle to it, Dimmy, is called a door. If you open it, you will see the way out the other side.”
“Thanks so much,” said I; “but then, you see, I’m not going. I’ve got so much to say, Grace, that really——”