“Well, I know. She did it so her mother wouldn't hear, and say in English that she was telling an awful whopper. Mr. Allen is no more engaged to Lucy Ayres than I am.”
Rose gazed at Sylvia with sudden eagerness. “What makes you think so, Aunt Sylvia?”
“Nothing makes me think what I know. Mr. Allen has never paid any attention to Lucy Ayres, beyond what he couldn't help, and she's made a mountain out of a mole-hill. Lucy Ayres is man-crazy, that's all. You needn't tell me.”
“Then you don't think—?”
“I know better. I'll ask Mr. Allen.”
“If you asked him it would make it very hard for him if it wasn't so,” said Rose.
“I don't see why.”
“Mr. Allen is a gentleman, and he could not practically accuse a woman of making an unauthorized claim of that sort,” said Rose.
“Well, I won't say anything about it to him if you think I had better not,” said Sylvia, “but I must say I think it's pretty hard on a man to have a girl going round telling folks he's engaged to her when he ain't. Eat that lamb chop and them pease while they're hot.”
“I am going to. They are delicious. I didn't think I was hungry at all, but to have things brought up this way—”