"Of course! You don't take it for a joke, do you?"
She smiled upon him with tantalizing sweetness. "Isn't it? Well, it may not be. But how about yourself?"
"Dolores," he warned, "unless you wish me to withdraw my—"
"Your solemn suit!" she cut in. "With that and the case you mentioned, the matter is complete. A suit and a case make a suitcase. You have my permission to pack."
"Dodie! You can't mean it!"
"Can't I? You may pack yourself off and get a tailor to press your suit. He can do it better. Run along now. I'm going to make up to Mr. Blake for that waltz of yours that he wouldn't let me give to him."
"You flirt!" cried Ashton, flushing crimson. "I believe your heart is made of petrified wood."
"Then don't ask me to throw it at you. It might hurt your soft head."
"Dolores!" he warned her.
"Yes," she went on, pretending to misunderstand him. "Wouldn't it be awful?—a chunk of petrified wood plunking into a can of woodpulp!"