“Don’t dodge, Christie: you know he came to see you.”
“How do you like him?” she asked, with treacherous abruptness.
“Not particularly, so far. But if I knew him, I dare say I should find many good traits in him.”
“I know you would!” said Christie, warmly, not thinking of Fletcher, but of David’s kindly way of finding good in every one.
“He must have improved since you saw him last; for then, if I remember rightly, you found him ‘lazy, cross, selfish, and conceited.’”
“Now, David, I never said any thing of the sort,” began Christie, wondering what possessed him to be so satirical and short with her.
“Yes, you did, last September, sitting on the old apple-tree the morning of your birthday.”
“What an inconvenient memory you have! Well, he was all that then; but he is not an invalid now, and so we see his real self.”
“I also remember that you gave me the impression that he was an elderly man.”
“Isn’t forty elderly?”