“Who was it this time?” I questioned, with anticipation. Inquiries over the telephone were sure to be interesting to me just now.
“Somebody who wanted to know what train you were going on, but would not give his name. He was inquiring for a friend, he said, and wouldn’t give his friend’s name either.”
“Didn’t you tell him?” I cried, in distress.
“Certainly not. I told him nobody but an idiot would withhold his name.”
Papa calls such a variety of men idiots.
“Oh, but it was probably only flowers or candy. Why didn’t you tell him? Have you no sentiment?”
“I won’t have you receiving anonymous communications,” he retorted, with the liberty fathers have a little way of taking with their daughters.
“But flowers,” I pleaded. “It is no harm to send flowers without a card. Don’t you see?” Oh, how hard it is to explain a delicate point like that to one’s father—in broad daylight! “I am supposed to know who sent them!”
“But would you know?” asked my practical ancestor.
“Not—not exactly. But it would be almost sure to be one of them.”