“Well, Nathan?” she demanded sharply. “Where did you come from?”
Nathan fought for his wits.
“I’m—on my way to the Orient,” he stammered. “It’s—the first time—I was ever in Chicago—and I thought I’d stop off and look you—up!”
“The Orient! What in the world are you going to the Orient for? Aren’t you afraid you’ll get lost out there—such a long way from Vermont?”
“Of course, if you don’t care about seeing me, Bernie, I won’t impose on you,” returned Nathan stiffly.
Bernice covered her annoyance with a forced smile.
“What did you want to see me about?” she demanded.
Well, what did he want to see her about? It would be a foolish reason—the true one—to explain.
“I—I—haven’t seen you for going on sixteen years, Bernie. And I thought—I thought—well, I saw your father about a month ago.”
“Yes? How is he?” Bernice asked it perfunctorily, as she might have asked after sundry unfortunates in devastated Belgium.