“How romantic you are!” Doris duplicated the giggle.
“Ain’t I jist?” Muriel came back buoyantly. “You ought to read my letters to Harry. They are almost business-like enough to be signed ‘Yours very truly.’ Would you like me to read you this one?”
“Mercy, no. I should not care to hear it.” Doris said with amused stress.
“And I shouldn’t care to read it to you,” Muriel replied with great affability.
“Nor to tell me about that meeting, either,” reminded Doris slyly.
“Oh, yes, the meeting.” Muriel appeared to remember vaguely Doris’s question. “Why don’t you ask—. No, you wouldn’t care to do that.” Muriel stopped, surveying Doris quizzically.
“You mean ask either Leslie or Marjorie,” Doris said quickly. “Not if I can help it.”
“What has happened?” Muriel continued to eye Doris shrewdly.
“That’s what I should like to tell you.”
“Don’t be afraid to confide in me,” Muriel assured flippantly. Sobering her merry features, she added: “I’ll tell you about the meeting.” She snapped her fountain pen shut, leaned back in her chair and recounted a trifle sketchily the happenings of the eventful meeting in the living room in which Marjorie had figured so prominently.