"You have guessed it."
"I am very glad for your sake, Jack. I was beginning to worry about
you."
"Worry about me?"
"Yes. I do not understand how a newspaper man can afford to buy roses
four or five times a week--and exist." She had the habit of being
blunt and frank to her intimate friends. I secretly considered it an
honor when she talked to me like this. "I have told you repeatedly to
send me flowers only once a week. I'd rather not have them at all.
Last week you spent as much as $30 on roses alone. Mr. Holland does
not do that for Ethel, and he has a million."
"I'm not Holland," I said. "He doesn't--that is--I do not think he--."
Then I foundered. I had almost said: "He doesn't care as much for
Ethel as I do for you."
Phyllis pretended not to note my embarrassment. The others came in
then, and conversation streamed into safer channels.
When we entered the box at the opera the curtain had risen. Phyllis
and I took the rear chairs. They were just out of the glare of the
lights.
"You are looking very beautiful to-night," I whispered lowly. I was
beginning business early.
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