"You know, Magda, I think it will mean the end of our friendship when Coppertop reaches years of discretion." Coppertop was Gillian's small son, a young person of seven, who owed his cognomen to the crop of flaming red curls which adorned his round button of a head.
Magda laughed.
"Pouf! By the time that happens I shall be quite old--and harmless." Gillian shook her head.
"Your type is never harmless, my dear.

Unless you fall in love, you'll be an unexploded mine till the day of your death." "That nearly occurred to-day, by the way," vouchsafed Magda tranquilly.
"In which case,"-- smiling--"you'd have been spared any further anxiety on Coppertop's account." "What do you mean ?" demanded Gillian, startled.
"I mean that I've had an adventure this afternoon.

We got smashed up in the fog." "Oh, my dear! How dreadful! How did it happen ?" "Something collided with the car and shot us bang into a motor-bus, and then, almost at the same moment, something else charged into us from behind.

So there was a pretty fair mix-up." "Why didn't you tell me before! Was anyone badly hurt?
And how did you get home ?" Gillian's questions poured out excitedly.
"No, no one was badly hurt.

I got a blow on the head, and fainted.