"Do you think it would help if we began all over again?" she asked, looking wickedly at him over her muff. "Let me see—you had an obsession which turned into a premonition that bumped Bailey and you found it wasn't Bailey at all, but a stranger in chinchillas who was going to—where did you say she was going? Oh, to the Austins'! That is clear, isn't it?"
"About as clear as anything that's happened to me to-night," he said.
"A snowy night does make a difference," she reflected.
"A—a difference?"
"Yes—doesn't it?" she asked innocently.
"I—in what?"
"In clearness. Things are clearer by daylight?"
"I don't see—I—exactly how—as a matter of fact I don't follow you at all," he said desperately. "You say things—and they sound all right—but somehow my answers seem queer. Do you suppose that German conversation has mentally twisted me?"
Her eyes above the fluffy fur of her muff were bright as stars, but she did not laugh.
"Suppose," she said, demurely, "that you choose a subject of conversation and try to make sense of it. If you are mentally twisted it will be good practice."