“But why did I swipe it?”
“I’m just coming to that,” he said, sternly.
“Oh, please, sir, I’m awful sorry I interrupted.”
“It was like this: You wanted to come over here and study medicine so’s you could cure your father.”
“But please, sir,” said the girl, with immense gravity, “mayn’t I let him die, and not find out what’s ailing him, so I can marry the maire?”
“Nope,” firmly, “you got to—Say, gee! I didn’t expect to tell you all this make-b’lieve…. I’m afraid you’ll think it’s awful fresh of me.”
“Oh, I loved it—really I did—because you liked to make it up about poor Istra. (My name is Istra Nash.) I’m sorry to say I’m not reahlly”—her two “reallys” were quite different—“a countess, you know. Tell me—you live in this same house, don’t you? Please tell me that you’re not an interesting Person. Please!”
“I—gee! I guess I don’t quite get you.”
“Why, stupid, an Interesting Person is a writer or an artist or an editor or a girl who’s been in Holloway Jail or Canongate for suffraging, or any one else who depends on an accident to be tolerable.”
“No, I’m afraid not; I’m just a kind of clerk.”