"Who is it?"
"Who is who?" she parried provokingly.
"The chap you're going to marry?"
Mary Virginia appeared to reflect deeply and anxiously. She put out a foot, with the eternal feminine gesture, and dug a neat little hole in the graveled walk with her satin toe.
"Laurence," said she. "I'm going to tell you the truth. The truth is, Laurence, that I simply hate to have to tell you the truth."
"Mary Virginia!" he stammered wretchedly. "You hate to have to tell me the truth? Oh, my dear, why? Why?"
"Because."
"But because why?"
"Because," said the dear hussy, demurely, "I don't know."
Laurence's arms fell to his sides, helplessly; he craned his neck and stared.