“Why don’t you tell me now?”
But she said, “No; it will be best to write. The fact is, I could not tell you now; it will be best to write.”
“What a darling little house this is!” was my next remark. “If only we could have a sweet little house like this to live in in town, how happy I should be!”
“It is a nice house,” she said. “I don’t think I’ll give it up. In fact,” she added, “I have made up my mind not to.”
“Were you thinking of moving?” I asked.
“I have made up my mind that the house shall remain—I mean that I shall keep the house,” was her unintelligible remark; and then she got very red—quite scarlet—all over, and she walked to one of the bookcases, opened it, and took out two volumes of The Daisy Chain and two more of The Heir of Redclyffe, and flung them into my lap.
“You haven’t read those, have you?” she asked.
“Oh no,” I replied, opening the first volume that came handy, and dipping into its contents.
“I think you will like them,” she said. “Take them back with you; put them into your brown-paper parcel. I mean—” She stopped.
She was a funny woman, after all. Why did she draw herself up each moment? It became almost irritating.