"And I remember," said Miss Knowles, "that you always take cream."
"Nothing, thank you," Jimmie corrected. "Just plain unadulterated tea. I learned to like it in Japan. But don't bother about it. I haven't long to stay. I came in to tell you—"
"That you're going to be married."
"How did you guess?"
"You didn't leave me to guess. Your telegram."
"Ah, yes!" quoth Jimmie. "I sent a lot of them before I sailed. But in my letters—"
"You mentioned absolutely nothing but that stupid old Drewitt affair. Never a word of the places you saw, the people you met, or even the people you missed. Nothing of the customs, the girls, the clothes. Nothing but that shuffling old Drewitt and his stuffy old wife. Nothing about yourself."
"Orders are orders," quoth Jimmie, "and those were yours to me. I remember exactly how it came about. We had been talking personalities. I have an idea that I made rather a fool of myself, and that you told me so. Then you, wisely conjecturing that I might write as foolishly as I had talked, made out a list of subjects for my letters. My name, I noted with some care, was not upon that list."
"Jimmie," said Miss Knowles, "I was cruel and heartless that day. I've thought about it often."
"You've thought!" cried the genial Jimmie. "How had you time to think? Where were all those 'anothers'?"