Her eyes twinkled. “I thought the measure rather scant,” she observed, mischievously. “I wish I might have a snap-shot of you in that—uniform.”
“I am afraid the opportunity for that is past.”
“But it—” with a little bubble of mirth, “it was so funny.”
“No doubt. I am sorry I can't oblige you with a photograph.”
She looked at me, biting her lip.
“Is your bump of humor a dent, Mr. Paine?” she inquired. “I am afraid it must be.”
“You may be right. I don't appreciate a joke as keenly as—well, as Mr. Carver, for instance.”
She turned her back upon me and led the way to the door.
“Shall we go to breakfast?” she asked, in a different tone.
Breakfast was a silent meal, so far as we two were concerned. The Atwoods, however, talked enough to make up the deficiency.