“Well,” I said, fishing round for some reason other than the true one, “perhaps I want to take a rest.”
“You are the worst man for fibs I ever knew,” she laughed.
I felt myself getting red, while I exclaimed, “Why, Miss Cullen, I never set up for a George Washington, but I don’t think I’m a bit worse liar than nine men in—”
“Oh,” she cried, interrupting me, “I didn’t mean that way. I meant that when you try to fib you always do it so badly that one sees right through you. Now, acknowledge that you wouldn’t stop work if you could?”
“Well, no, I wouldn’t,” I owned up. “The truth is, Miss Cullen, that I’d like to be rich, because—well, hang it, I don’t care if I do say it—because I’m in love.”
Madge laughed at my confusion, and asked, “With money?”
“No,” I said. “With just the nicest, sweetest, prettiest girl in the world.”
Madge took a look at me out of the corner of her eye, and remarked, “It must be breakfast time.”
Considering that it was about six-thirty, I wanted to ask who was telling a taradiddle now; but I resisted the temptation, and replied,—
“No. And I promise not to bother you about my private affairs any more.”