“No,” he said. “It tastes like warm blotting-paper, but not rummy.”
Mary was sniffing.
“Don’t cry,” urged Rollo, tenderly. “Don’t cry.”
“But I must. And I’ve come out without a handkerchief.”
“Permit me,” said Rollo, producing one of her best from his left breast-pocket.
“I wish I had a powder-puff,” said Mary.
“Allow me,” said Rollo. “And your hair has become a little disordered. If I may—” And from the same reservoir he drew a handful of hairpins.
Mary gazed at these exhibits with astonishment.
“But these are mine,” she said.
“Yes. I sneaked them from time to time.”