Sally with an effort repressed an hysterical laugh.
“Yes, I remember,” she said.
“Well, it's all gone bloo-ey. I'll tell you about that in a minute. Coming back to this man in England, if you're in any doubt about it... I mean, you can't always tell right away whether you're fond of a man or not... When first I met Fillmore, I couldn't see him with a spy-glass, and now he's just the whole shooting-match... But that's not what I wanted to talk about. I was saying one doesn't always know one's own mind at first, and if this fellow really is a good fellow... and Fillmore tells me he's got all the money in the world...”
Sally stopped her.
“No, it's no good. I don't want to marry Mr. Carmyle.”
“That's that, then,” said Mrs. Fillmore. “It's a pity, though.”
“Why are you taking it so much to heart?” said Sally with a nervous laugh.
“Well...” Mrs. Fillmore paused. Sally's anxiety was growing. It must, she realized, be something very serious indeed that had happened if it had the power to make her forthright sister-in-law disjointed in her talk. “You see...” went on Mrs. Fillmore, and stopped again. “Gee! I'm hating this!” she murmured.
“What is it? I don't understand.”
“You'll find it's all too darned clear by the time I'm through,” said Mrs. Fillmore mournfully. “If I'm going to explain this thing, I guess I'd best start at the beginning. You remember that revue of Fillmore's—the one we both begged him not to put on. It flopped!”