"Are you really sick of him?" I asked Dorothy.
"Yes!"
"As sick of him as I am?"
"I--I daresay."
"Then let's cross him out," I said. And I went back to the table and
took up my pen. "Say the word," I said to Dorothy.
"Steady on," began Reginald uneasily. "All I meant was--"
"Personally, as you know," I said to Dorothy, "I think he's a silly
ass. And if you think so too--"
"I say, look here, old chap--"
Dorothy nodded. I dipped the pen in the ink.
"Then out he goes," I said, and I drew a line through him. When I
looked up only Dorothy was there....
"Dorothy!" I said. "At last!"
"But my name isn't really Dorothy, you know," she said with a smile.
"It's Dorothy this week, and last week it was Phyllis, and the week
before--"
"Then what is it really? Tell me! So that I may know my ideal when I
see her again."
I got ready to write the name down. I dipped my pen in the ink
again, and I drew a line through Dorothy, and then I looked up
questioningly at her, and...
Fool, fool! She was gone!
II faut vivre. You'll see the story in one of the papers this week.
You'll recognize it, because he is called Harold, and she is called
Lucy. At the end of the second column he proposes and she accepts
him. Lucy--of all names! It serves them right.