It was what I wanted to hear.
You never tell me what you're really thinking about."
She received the reproach with a mildly incredulous
smile in her eyes. "Yes--I know--who was it used to
scold me about that? Oh"--she seemed suddenly reminded
of something--"I was forgetting to mention it. I have
a letter from Celia Madden. She is back in England;
she is coming to us Saturday, too."
He put out his lips a trifle. "That's all right,"
he objected, "but what has it got to do with what we
were talking about?"
"Talking about?" she queried, with a momentarily
blank countenance. "Oh, she used to bully me about
my deceit, and treachery, and similar crimes. But I shall
be immensely glad to see her. I always fight with her,
but I think I like her better than any other woman alive."
"I like her too," Thorpe was impelled to say, with a kind
of solemnity. "She reminds me of some of the happiest
hours in my life."
His wife, after a brief glance into his face, laughed pleasantly,
if with a trace of flippancy. "You say nice things,"
she observed, slightly inclining her head. "But now that
Celia is coming, it would be as well to have another man.
It's such dreadfully short notice, though."
"I daresay your father could come, all right,"
Thorpe suggested. "I'd rather have him than almost
anyone else.
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