Lucy stared at the girl for a long ten seconds, and then looked away. Somehow her walk home with him had been transmogrified into a melodramatic rejection, a slamming. “I’m really very sorry. Very soon she would be able to forget it. “It’s just that he doesn’t seem like your type. To-morrow night —or rather to-night, for we are fast verging on another day—I propose to lure him out of the house by a stratagem which I am sure will prove infallible; and, then, what so easy as to knock him on the head. She fidgeted and looked away. Your Mom says to come downstairs for dessert.
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