“Don’t tell anybody,” she said.
“I should think not!” I retorted, with dignity. “I hope I have some pride.”
“Have you presented your letter to the ambassador?” she asked.
“Yes, but it’s so near Christmas that I suppose he won’t bother about two waifs like us until after it’s over.”
“My! but you are blue,” she said. “I never heard you refer to yourself as a waif before.”
“I am a worm of the dust. I wish there wasn’t such a thing as Christmas! I wonder what Billy will say when he sees his tree.”
“You might cable and find out,” she said. “It only costs about three marks a word. ‘What did Billy say when he saw his tree?’—nine words—it would cost you about eight dollars, without counting the address.”
Dead silence. I didn’t think she was at all funny.
“Don’t you think we ought to have champagne to-morrow?” she asked.
“What for? I hate the stuff. It makes me ill. Do you want it?”