"You mostly are."
"That is all that you know about it," reply I, brusquely, rather resenting the accusation. "I have not been at all in good spirits all this—this autumn and winter, not, that is, compared to what I usually am."
"Have not you?"
"I am in good spirits to-day, I grant you," continue I, more affably; "it would be very odd if I were not. I should jump out of my skin if I were quite sure of getting back into it again; I have had such good news."
"Have you? I wish I had" (sighing). "What is it?"
"I will give you three guesses," say I, trying to keep grave, but breaking out everywhere, as I feel, into badly-suppressed smiles.
"Something about the boys, of course!"—(half fretfully)—"it is always the boys."
"It is nothing about the boys—quite wrong. That is one."
"The fair Zéphine is no more!—by-the-by, I suppose I should have heard of that."
"It is nothing about the fair Zéphine—wrong again! That is two!"