"
Georgia herself, though not sepulchral, was subdued. "My, but I'm glad
you've come," she said, brushing aside several hundred letters that
Ernestine might have a place to sit down. "I'm having the most terrible
twinge of conscience."
"Why, what about?"
Georgia pointed to the clock. "Think of my not being at the office! I
ought to be hanging around now for an afternoon assignment."
"You'll get over that," Ernestine assured her, cheerfully.
"Oh, I suppose so. One gets over everything--even being alive. Meanwhile,
behold me,"--with a great sweep of her arms--"surrounded by my blighting
past."
"That one looks like Freddie Allen's writing," said Ernestine, giving an
envelope at her foot a little shove.
"It is," said Georgia, with feeling; "yes--it is. Poor Freddie--he was
such a nice boy."
"I suppose he's nice still," observed Ernestine.
"Oh, I suppose so. I'm sure I don't know. He's way back there in the dim
past."
"Well, do you want him up here in the sunny present?" Ernestine inquired,
much entertained.
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