When he had driven away Dimbie sauntered across the grass.
"What is that man kissing you for?"
"Dimbie," I said, "you are too comical for words, and I will return your question with another. What is the matter with you?"
"I don't know." He lay down on the grass and leaned his head against my couch. "I'm cross, I think, Marg."
"Yes," I returned, running my fingers through his wavy hair, "you're very cross. How long do you think you will continue to be so?"
"Till Miss Fairbrother has gone. Marg, I don't want to be a surly beast, but, oh, I do wish I had never consented to that Indian woman's coming."
"If I tell you something will you promise to keep it secret—either till the day after to-morrow, Thursday, or forever?"
"There's rather a wide difference between the two periods of time."
"Yes, but there is a reason for it. Will you promise?"
"All right."