“Andrew was in tonight. He always comes the Friday night I don’t go to New Moon. Aunt Ruth left us alone in the parlour and went out to a meeting of the Ladies’ Aid. Andrew, being a Murray, can be trusted.
“I don’t dislike Andrew. It would be impossible to dislike so harmless a being. He is one of those good, talkative, awkward dears who goad you irresistibly into-tormenting them. Then you feel remorseful afterwards because they are so good.
“Tonight, Aunt Ruth being out, I tried to discover how little I could really say to Andrew, while I pursued my own train of thought. I discovered that I could get along with very few words—‘Yes’—‘No’—in several inflections, with or without a little laugh—‘I don’t know’— ‘Really?’—‘Well, well’—‘How wonderful!’—especially the last. Andrew talked on, and when he stopped for breath I stuck in ‘How wonderful.’ I did it exactly eleven times. Andrew liked it. I know it gave him a nice, flattering feeling that he was wonderful, and his conversation wonderful. Meanwhile I was living a splendid imaginary dream life by the River of Egypt in the days of Thotmes I.
“So we were both very happy. I think I’ll try it again. Andrew is too stupid to catch me at it.
“When Aunt Ruth came home she asked, ‘Well, how did you and Andrew get along?’
“She asks that every time he comes down. I know why. I know the little scheme that is understood among the Murrays, even though I don’t believe any of them have ever put it into words.
“‘Beautifully,’ I said. ‘Andrew is improving. He said one interesting thing tonight, and he hadn’t so many feet and hands as usual.’
“I don’t know why I say things like that to Aunt Ruth occasionally. It would be so much better for me if I didn’t. But something—whether it’s Murray or Starr
