She spoke distantly, formally. "What kind
of a reading do you want?" she asked. "A hand reading, or a
crystal reading?"
Winthrop leaned forward in his chair, frankly smiling at her. He
made no attempt to conceal the pleasure the sight of her gave
him. His manner was that of a very old and dear friend, who, for
the first time, had met her after a separation of years.
"Don't want any kind of a reading," he declared. "I want a
talking. You don't seem to understand," he objected, "that I am
making an afternoon call." His good humor was unassailable.
Looking up with a perplexed frown, Vera met his eyes and saw
that he was laughing at her. She threw the ivory pointer down
and, leaning back in her chair, smiled at him.
"I don't believe," she said doubtfully, "that I know much about
afternoon calls. What would I do, if we were on Fifth Avenue?
Would I give you tea?" she asked, "because," she added hastily,
"there isn't any tea."
"In that case, it is not etiquette to offer any," said Winthrop
gravely.
"Then," said Vera, "I'm doing it right, so far?"
They both laughed; Vera because she still was in awe of him, and
Winthrop because he was happy.
"You're doing it charmingly," Winthrop assured her.
"Good!" exclaimed Vera. "Well, now," she inquired, "now we talk,
don't we?"
"Yes," assented Winthrop promptly, "we talk about you."
"No, I -- I don't think we do," declared Vera, in haste. "I
think we talk about -- Geneva.
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