I guess Beresford is trying to forget that he kissed my hand the other night, for he called me “Little Miss Barbara” today, meaning little in the sense of young. I gave him a stern glanse.
“I am not any littler than the other night,” I observed.
“That was merely an afectionate diminutive,” he said, looking uncomfortable.
“If you don’t mind,” I said coldly, “you might do as you have hertofore—reserve your afectionate advances until we are alone.”
“Barbara!” mother said. And began quickly to talk about a Lady Somthing or other we’d met on a train in Switzerland. Because—they can talk until they are black in the face, dear Dairy, but it is true—we do not know any of the British Nobilaty, except the aforementioned and the man who comes once a year with flavering extracts, who says he is the third son of a Barronet.
Every one being out this afternoon, I suddenly had an inspiration, and sent for Carter Brooks. I then put my hair up and put on my blue silk, because while I do not beleive in Woman using her femanine charm when talking busness, I do beleive that she should look her best under any and all circumstances.
He was rather surprized not to find Sis in, as I had used her name in telephoning.
“I did it,” I explained, “because I knew that you felt no interest in me, and I had to see you.”
He looked at me, and said:
“I’m rather flabergasted, Bab. I—what ought I to say, anyhow?”