“No, thank you,” refused Katherine. “I weigh more than you, and I cannot risk my neck through the collapse of that bit of gossamer. I must take care of myself for his sake.”
“Then it is the life insurance man whose interests you are consulting? Have you taken out a policy with him?”
“Dear me, you are nearly as bad as father, but not quite so funny. You are referring to Mr. Henderson, I presume. A most delightful companion for a dance, but, my dear Dorothy, life is not all glided out to the measures of a Strauss waltz.”
“True; quite undisputable, Kate, and them sentiments do you credit. Who is the man?”
“The human soul,” continued Katherine seriously, “aspires to higher things than the society columns of the New York Sunday papers, and the frivolous chatter of an overheated ball-room.”
“Again you score, Kate, and are rising higher and higher in my estimation. I see it all now. Those solemn utterances of yours point directly toward Hugh Miller’s ‘Old Red Sandstone’ and works of that sort, and now I remember your singing ‘When Johnny comes marching home.’ I therefore take it that Jack Lamont has arrived.”
“He has not.”
“Then he has written to you?”
“He has not.”
“Oh, well, I give it up. Tell me the tragedy your own way.”