You should sit much nearer the
edge of the chair and hold yourself very stiff, and make it quite
clear that you don't know what to do with your hands."
All this in a fascinating voice with a ripple of badinage that
seemed to play upon the sober surface of her thoughts. Then seeing
that I did not answer she altered the note a bit.
"Amigo George," she said, "I take the trouble to send for you and
here I am before you, talking to you and you say nothing."
"What am I to say?"
"How can I tell? You might say a thousand things. You might, for
instance, tell me that you were sorry for my tears."
"I might also tell you a thousand lies. What do I know about your
tears? I am not a susceptible idiot. It all depends upon the
cause. There are tears of quiet happiness. Peeling onions also
will bring tears."
"Oh, you are not susceptible," she flew out at me. "But you are an
idiot all the same."
"Is it to tell me this that you have written to me to come?" I
asked with a certain animation.
"Yes. And if you had as much sense as the talking parrot I owned
once you would have read between the lines that all I wanted you
here for was to tell you what I think of you."
"Well, tell me what you think of me.
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