Edward Boltwood

“ Of course, I realized before that Agatha was beautiful, but now— Ah, Susan, Susan!
Agatha commenced her fanciful letter soberly, leaning forward so that a sunbeam fell on the bronze hair.
"'Dear Robert: No matter how many new people I meet, I remember my most perfect pal.'"
"Thank you," I acknowledged; "but dare I put it—sententious?"
"Did you say sentimental?" cried Agatha.
"I did not," I replied, loftily. "Sentimental, indeed!"
Agatha held me for a second in her eyes. "Sentiment is part of the nonsense that's bound to happen," she murmured, and turned her head. ”

“ I did not know where to look, and so I looked at Agatha. Whereupon, she frowned the harder and the more becomingly.
"Pay attention to me," she directed.
"Ah, who wouldn't?" said I.
"Rob, dear—" her tone altered to what I used to call her stained-glass voice—"Rob, you make me think that we must understand things together as we never did before. Oh, why can't we be children always? There never was any difficulty about understanding then. Can't we be wise now, like children—in spite of the nonsense that is bound to come, I suppose, to every man—and woman?" ”

“ I explained, pompously, "and good."
"One must be clever to stay good in Mentone. Then there were St. Petersburg and Buda-Pesth and the Isle of Wight, We yote from Gib to Alexandria."
"Yote?"
"Past tense of verb, 'to yacht.' And I think you might have written me.
"Quite true," I assented. "But if I had, I would have nothing to tell you now."
"Well!" Agatha's scorn was as charming as ever. "You are telling me absolutely nothing, as it is."
"True again." And I thought desperately of Susan. ”