"Why do you never write to me?"
"I haven't time, Louis; it's as much as I can do to write home."
"But I do think you might write to me, because I am—well, I really am awfully fond of you, Marjorie. Do you know I like you better than any girl I know? Upon my word I do."
"Thank you, Louis," said Marjorie, with a mock bow, "that's a very pretty compliment."
"It isn't a compliment, Marjorie; at least I mean it's quite a true one. Did you get the picture postcards I sent you?"
"Yes, thank you, Louis; I asked mother, if she was writing to you, to thank you for them."
"So she did; but I had rather have had a letter from you, Marjorie."
They were walking towards the railway station when the hour was over, and Louis's train was almost due, when he said suddenly—
"Marjorie, I'm going away, and you haven't said anything nice to me."
"Now that isn't a compliment!" she said, laughing again. "Look, Louis! The signal is down; we must hurry."