Georgia pointed to the clock. "Think of my not being at the office! I ought to be hanging around now for an afternoon assignment."
"You'll get over that," Ernestine assured her, cheerfully.
"Oh, I suppose so. One gets over everything—even being alive. Meanwhile, behold me,"—with a great sweep of her arms—"surrounded by my blighting past."
"That one looks like Freddie Allen's writing," said Ernestine, giving an envelope at her foot a little shove.
"It is," said Georgia, with feeling; "yes—it is. Poor Freddie—he was such a nice boy."
"I suppose he's nice still," observed Ernestine.
"Oh, I suppose so. I'm sure I don't know. He's way back there in the dim past."
"Well, do you want him up here in the sunny present?" Ernestine inquired, much entertained.
"No, oh no—if I had wanted him I would have had him," with which reversion to the normal Georgia they laughed understandingly.
She shook herself free of the dust of her past then, piled up the pillows and settled herself on the bed. "But we had some good times back there in the dim past, didn't we, Ernestine?"