Do you remember, Eric? And
now, O dear me, you lost your race, and I hate my long gowns.
O--my--dear--brother--do you like it all as well as you thought you
would?"
"Why, Mae, you poor little tot, you're sentimental--for you. Yes, I like
the future as well as I always did. I never gave much for the present,
at any rate."
"But I did, Eric; I always did, till just now, and now I hate it, and
I'm afraid of the future, and I'd like to grow backwards, and instead,
in a month, I'll have another birth-day, and go into those dreadful
twenties." Then Mae was quiet a moment. "Eric, I was sentimental," she
said, after a pause. "Really, I do like the future very much. I quite
forgot how much for the moment."
"You're a strange child, indeed," replied Eric, the puzzled. "Your words
are like lightning. I had just got melted down and ready to reply to
your reminiscences by lots of others, and here you are all jolly and
matter-of-fact again. I was growing so dreadfully unselfish that I
should have insisted on staying home with you this evening to cheer you
up a bit.
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