“There is no mistake, is there?” asked Mr. Blair. “You know the writer.”
“There is no mistake—no mistake,” replied Miss McMillan in a low voice, “he is a very dear and kind friend.” Then, as if unable to trust herself further, she took the flowers and hurriedly said, “Thank you,” and left us.
“There,” I said to the lady on my left, “your romance turns out to be nothing after all.”
“No, sir,” she cried with emphasis; “the romance is there, and very much more of a romance than if Miss McMillan was a young and silly girl of twenty.”
Perhaps she was right.