“‘Lovesick all against our will—‘”
“Only one.”
“‘Twenty years hence we shan’t be A pair of lovesick maidens still.’”
“I am pleased to note,” said Dorothy demurely, “that the letter written by the Prince to your father has brought you back to the Gilbert and Sullivan plane again, although in this fairy glen you should quote from Iolanthe rather than from Patience.”
“Yes, Dot, this spot might do for a cove in the ‘Pirates of Penzance,’ only we’re too far from the sea. But, to return to the matter in hand, I don’t think there will be any need to send that cablegram. I don’t like the idea of a cablegram, anyhow. I will return to the hotel, and dictate to my frivolous father a serious composition quite as stately and formal as that received from the Prince. He will address it and seal it, and then if you are kind enough to enclose it in the next letter you send to Lieutenant Drummond, it will be sure to reach Jack Lamont ultimately.”
Dorothy sprang from the hammock to the ground.
“Oh,” she cried eagerly, “I’ll go into the hotel with you and write my letter at once.”
Katherine smiled, took her by the arm, and said:
“You’re a dear girl, Dorothy. I’ll race you to the hotel, as soon as we are through this thicket.”