"I can't imagine."
"His beard has gone, and his hair has been cut Eastern fashion, and his mustache turned up at the ends, and he dresses well,—Mary says so,—and that the contrast is startling. Oh, Phil! What if he should—"
"Should what? Fall in love with your paragon of women? Well, I suppose men are never too old to make fools of themselves, and Caleb is only forty, but I beg that you'll at once remind Miss Truett that Caleb is too good a man to be hurt at heart for a woman's amusement. Why are you looking at nothing in that vague manner?"
"I'm trying to imagine Caleb's new appearance."
"Spare yourself the effort. I'll telegraph him for a photograph."
"But I want to know—at once, to see whether he's really impressed Mary more seriously than she admits."
"Oh, you women! You can start a possible romance on less basis than would serve for a dream. Do go backward in that letter, to the lady's brother, if only to suppress your imagination."
"I suppose I must," sighed Grace, "for I've reached the end. The brother, it seems, can secure a railroad pass to visit this country, if there is any possible business opening for him here."
"I wish there were, I'm sure, for I don't know of a place more in need of services such as a landscape architect could render, but you know that he couldn't earn a dollar."