“Betty, please be serious,” Phillip begged.
“Serious? Very well, I’ll try.” She drew the corners of her mouth down and frowned intensely. Phillip sighed. “How long must I stay like this?” she asked. “It’s—it’s awfully puckery!”
“I—I got your picture,” said Phillip softly. “Thank you, Betty.”
“Picture?” Betty’s frown increased. “Picture? Oh, yes, of course. Gracious! I’d forgotten,” she fibbed. “I sent away so many of those old things Christmas! Did you like it?”
“Yes,” he answered miserably. Then, “Who did—how many did you give away?” he asked.
“How many? Oh, heaps; I can’t begin to remember. I always send photographs Christmas; it’s such a nice, easy way to give presents, isn’t it? I always think they’re lots nicer and more intimate than Christmas cards.”
“I don’t believe it,” he muttered doubtfully.
“What, that they’re nicer than cards? Oh, well, every one to his taste. Next time I’ll send you a card: one with a lovely little landscape all frosted over with that glittery stuff, and a nice little verse in the corner. I’m glad you told me; I like to know what people want, don’t you?”
“I didn’t mean that; you know I didn’t. Don’t you want me to tell you why I—why I haven’t been in to see you?”