"Is he? I didn't notice."
"You didn't notice! Child!--you're not in the convent now."
"No; sometimes I wish I were."
"That's a flattering thing to say!--considering where you are!--and that I am here!"
"Frances! I didn't mean that! You don't understand."
"You are wrong; I do. I've a feeling that there's something mysterious about you, about your presence here; and, Dorothy Gilbert, if there's anything I do love, it's mystery. I suppose it's too much to hope that it's one of those frightful mysteries, of which one only speaks with bated breath--that sort of blood-curdler never crosses my path. But, whatever it may be, I foresee a perfectly delightful time ahead, while I am engaged in wriggling out from you the secret. However insinuating I may be, baffle my curiosity; and for goodness sake don't let it burst on me too soon. Let it dawn on me by degrees; in instalments, my dear; and let me have a shock with each instalment; each one greater than the last; so that the full comprehension of the mystery comes with a culminating shock which turns my hair almost grey--almost, my pet, not quite, if you please. I've heard that grey hair suits some girls; but I don't believe I'm one of them. By the way of beginning my insinuating, let me remark that you have changed since I saw you."
"So have you--and you must have changed more than I have, because I didn't know you, and you did know me."
"That's true. Now, Dorothy, no flummery, and no fibs--in what respect do you consider I have altered?"
"Well--for one thing you seem to be so much more of a woman."
"Do I? Isn't that natural?"