She got up and made a face at me. "Of course," she remarked with deliberate provocation, "If you think more of Ponto than you do of me. I'm so glad, Winnie, to know that Ponto is better. He's your dog, isn't he? What was wrong with him? What medicine did you give him? What did the vet say—"
She ended in a startled squeak and ran for the door.
"You beast!" she exclaimed, turning on me, "it was locked, all the time. Oh, Winnie—"
A thousand years later she said once more, "Oh, Winnie!"
Then she laughed.
"Just the same," she said, "I'm glad about Ponto. I still think I don't like the way he's been acting."
She yawned.
"And now, sir," she added, "will you please let me go to my room. I'm still rather dirty from my trip and I ought to get a few things unpacked. And besides," she laughed again, "I'm ravenously hungry."
"So am I," I remarked truthfully, "but—"
"I know we're both crazy," she told me some time later, "and perhaps they'd better give us a double-room at the asylum. But I know that unless I eat something right away I'll be dead in the morning."