"I think it's a waste of time myself," she returned promptly.
"Well, I don't know about that."
"Maybe I am wrongish."
"But still—"
"Yeh, but still—"
They looked at each other and Lillian burst out laughing. Lillian always made it a practice to laugh when there threatened to be a lull in the conversation. That is, of course, a conversation for two. Silence would make her appear dumb and unable to think of anything to say; so she laughed, and the laughter gave her a superior position. It always worked out so.
"What are you laughing at?" Hubert asked.
"Oh, nothing," she replied with an effort.
"What's so funny? Let me in on it."
"Oh, I can't." A handkerchief leaped to her hand from some unlikely spot, and wiping her eyes, she made a brave attempt to control herself. It proved no use. She was off again in a moment.
Hubert became uncomfortable. What was she laughing at? What had he said or done? "Say, what's the joke?"
"Oh, I can't tell you." The handkerchief flew to her eyes again. She tried once more to control her merriment. This time she was successful. She breathed a faint, weak "Oh, dear" and regained a polite and quiet demeanor. It had worked. She had now convinced him that she knew all sorts of amusing things which she couldn't possibly share with an outsider. And too, there still persisted a sneaking notion that perhaps she had
