"No," I replied, "I gave up my book over my second cup of tea."
"Dear Marguerite," she said, kissing me. "I am sure you will make your husband very happy."
"I hope so."
"You're bound to, if you are as earnest as all that about it. Your face looks like—like—a toadstool!"
"Thank you," I laughed.
"I'm not going to say pretty things to you. You get quite enough from that silly Dimbie of yours. But now tell me before I go, just to satisfy my curiosity, what is your reason for wishing to write this book? I always thought you such a simple child."
I closed the carriage door and looked away.
She leaned forward and turned my face round.
"Why, she's actually blushing!" she ejaculated.
"Home," I said to John, wresting my face away.