Latimer was saying it without the book and with a queer smile
that made me feel I hadn't quite caught on.

"Thank you, that will do," he went on. "That is enough,
Miss--" He stopped.

I waited.

He did not say "Omar."

I looked him square in the eye--and then I had enough.

"But what in the devil did you make believe for?" I asked.

He smiled.

"If ever you come to lie on your back day and night, year in and
year out, and know that never in your life will it be any
different, you may take pleasure in a bit of excitement and--and
learn to pity the under dog, who, in this case, happened to be a
boy that leaped over the gate as though his heart was in his
mouth. Just as you would admire the nerve of the young lady that
came out of the house a few minutes after in your housekeeper's
Sunday gown."

Yes, grin, Torn Dorgan. You won't grin long.

I put down the book and got up to go.

"Good night, then, and thank you, Mr. Latimer."