He walked home thoughtfully.
After dinner he said abruptly to Nelly, "I had a letter from Paris to-day."
"Honestly? Who is she?"
"G-g-g-g--"
"Oh, it's always a she."
"Why--uh--it is from a girl. I started to tell you about her one day. She's an artist, and once we took a long tramp in the country. I met her--she was staying at the same place as I was in London. But--oh, gee! I dunno; she's so blame literary. She is a fine person--Do you think you'd like a girl like that?"
"Maybe I would."
"If she was a man?"
"Oh, yes-s! Artists are so romantic."
"But they ain't on the job more 'n half the time," he said, jealously.
"Yes, that's so."
His hand stole secretly, craftily skirting a cushion, to touch hers--which she withdrew, laughing: "Hump-a! You go hold your artist's hand!"
"Oh, Miss Nelly! When I told you about her myself!"
"Oh yes, of course."
She was contrite, and they played Five Hundred animatedly all evening.