That's what they mean
by a sensible sort of girl, isn't it?"
"I daresay it is," said the Prophet, endeavouring not to feel as if he
were sitting with a dozen or two of very practised stump orators.
"Yes, and that's what they think I am."
"And aren't you?" inquired the Prophet.
Lady Enid drew herself upon the Aberdeen lean-to.
"No," she said decisively, "I'm not. I'm a Miss Minerva Partridge."
"Well, but what is that?" asked the Prophet, with all the air of a man
inquiring about some savage race.
"That's the secret--"
"Oh, I beg your pardon!"
"That I'm going to tell you now, because I trust you--"
Again the pronouns were emphasised, and the Prophet thought how
difficult it would be to keep his oath.
"And because I know now that you're silly too."
The Prophet jumped, though not for joy.
"I've been Miss Minerva Partridge for--wait a moment, I must look."
She got up, went to a writing table, opened a drawer in it, and took out
a large red book and turned its leaves.
"My diary," she explained. "It's foolish to keep one, isn't it?"
Her intonation so obviously called for an affirmative that the Prophet
felt constrained to reply,--
"Very foolish indeed.
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