"Now, I want to ask you something. You know my cousin, don't you?"

"Have you sisters and cousins, whom you reckon up by dozens?"

"It doesn't matter if I have. I mean my cousin, Marie Homer, to whom
you telephoned, or tried to, on the fourteenth of February. But you
got me, instead, and that means we're each other's valentine. See?"

"No, I don't see at all. I only like pretty valentines."

"Oh, I'm as pretty as a picture! That part is all right. Now, I've
tried my best to find out who you are, from Marie. But either she
can't or won't tell. But I've found out one thing, for certain.
You're NOT Miss Farrington."

"No, I'm not; but I never said I was."

"I know you didn't, but you told me you were a pretty brunette, with
poppy cheeks,--and Miss Farrington is that."

"Did I tell you I was PRETTY? Oh, I'm SURE I didn't!"

"You didn't have to. I know that myself. Now, if you'll keep still a
minute, _I_'D like to speak."

"If I can't talk, I may as well hang up this receiver, for I'm sure
I don't want to sit here and listen to you."

"Chatterbox! Now, listen; Marie is having a musicale next Friday
night, and I want you to come."