“I have heard that such is the case.”
“But you’re not sure, and I want to be certain.”
“Are you really in love with him, Kate?”
“Of course I am. You know that very well, and I don’t want any stupid misapprehension to arise at the beginning, such as allows a silly author to carry on his story to the four-hundredth page of such trash as this,” and she gently touched with her toe the unoffending volume which lay on the ground beneath the hammock.
“Then why not adopt your father’s suggestion, and cable? It isn’t you who are cabling, you know.”
“I couldn’t consent to that. It would look as if we were in a hurry, wouldn’t it?”
“Then let me cable.”
“You? To whom?”
“Hand me up that despised book, Kate, and I’ll write my cablegram on the fly-leaf. If you approve of the message, I’ll go to the hotel, and send it at once.”
Katherine gave her the book, and lent the little silver pencil which hung jingling, with other trinkets, on the chain at her belt. Dorothy scribbled a note, tore out the fly-leaf, and presented it to Katherine, who read: