"That is a queer subject for your thoughts, Margery," he said.
"I think that you are sorry that you are not friends with Miss Isabel," Margery continued.
"I am very sorry that I am not friends with Miss Isabel," Mr. Dean repeated gravely.
"Now I think Miss Isabel doesn't know," said Margery.
"Doesn't know what, little dove?" Mr. Dean asked.
"I don't know, but she doesn't know something," Margery replied. "Miss Isabel's this way: if anybody does anything she doesn't like, she always forgives them right away, before they ask her to, and if anybody's bad she says maybe they aren't what they seem. Now you're nice, and yet you're the only one she acts so queer about. I've puzzled and puzzled over it, and I can't see why it is, but I know she doesn't understand. I think you're friends all the time, only it's all horrid."
"Well," said Mr. Dean, smiling a little, "I think it's rather horrid myself."
"Yes," assented Margery. "Now why don't you send her a letter through our postoffice, and tell her how badly it makes us all feel?"
Mr. Dean sat up straight, and looked at her.