“Oh, pshaw!” flushed the Young Electrician, crinkling up all the little smile-tissue around his blue eyes.  “Oh, pshaw!  Go ahead and tell her about ‘Rosie.’”

“Why, I tell you it wasn’t anything so specially interesting,” protested the Traveling Salesman diffidently.  “We simply got jollying a bit in the first place about the amount of perfectly senseless, no-account truck that’ll collect in a fellow’s pockets; and then some sort of a scorched piece of paper he had, or something, got him telling me about a nasty, sizzling close call he had to-day with a live wire; and then I got telling him here about a friend of mine—­and a mighty good fellow, too—­who dropped dead on the street one day last summer with an unaddressed, typewritten letter in his pocket that began ‘Dearest Little Rosie,’ called her a ‘Honey’ and a ‘Dolly Girl’ and a ‘Pink-Fingered Precious,’ made a rather foolish dinner appointment for Thursday in New Haven, and was signed—­in the Lord’s own time—­at the end of four pages, ’Yours forever, and then some.  Tom.’—­Now the wife of the deceased was named—­Martha.”

Quite against all intention, the Youngish Girl’s laughter rippled out explosively and caught up the latent amusement in the Young Electrician’s face.  Then, just as unexpectedly, she wilted back a little into her seat.

“I don’t call that an ’indiscreet letter’!” she protested almost resentfully.  “You might call it a knavish letter.  Or a foolish letter.  Because either a knave or a fool surely wrote it!  But ‘indiscreet’?  U-m-m, No!”

“Well, for heaven’s sake!” said the Traveling Salesman.  “If—­you—­don’t—­call—­that—­an—­indiscreet letter, what would you call one?”

“Yes, sure,” gasped the Young Electrician, “what would you call one?” The way his lips mouthed the question gave an almost tragical purport to it.

“What would I call an ’indiscreet letter’?” mused the Youngish Girl slowly.  “Why—­why—­I think I’d call an ‘indiscreet letter’ a letter that was pretty much—­of a gamble perhaps, but a letter that was perfectly, absolutely legitimate for you to send, because it would be your own interests and your own life that you were gambling with, not the happiness of your wife or the honor of your husband.  A letter, perhaps, that might be a trifle risky—­but a letter, I mean, that is absolutely on the square!”

“But if it’s absolutely ‘on the square,’” protested the Traveling Salesman, worriedly, “then where in creation does the ‘indiscreet’ come in?”

The Youngish Girl’s jaw dropped.  “Why, the ‘indiscreet’ part comes in,” she argued, “because you’re not able to prove in advance, you know, that the stakes you’re gambling for are absolutely ’on the square.’  I don’t know exactly how to express it, but it seems somehow as though only the very little things of Life are offered in open packages—­that all the big things come sealed very tight.  You can poke them a little and make a guess at the shape,