I heard it, but I was afraid to look.

"Do you?
How very odd!" Her voice sounded queer, as if it had been squeezed dry of every sort of emotion.

"And--Edith ?" I looked at her then, fast enough.

"Edith ?" I stared at her stupidly.
"What the--what's Edith got to do with it ?" "Possibly nothing"-- in the same squeezed tone.

"Men are so--er--irresponsible; and you say you don't always mean--Still, when a man writes pages and _pages_ to a girl every week for nearly a year, one naturally supposes--" "Oh, look here!" I was getting desperate enough to be a bit rough with her.