"You were right, Madge, and I was wrong," she said reflectively, still as if she were studying her problem; "that man is no 'masher.'"
I looked up startled. "What makes you think so?" I asked breathlessly.
"I don't know," she returned, "but he either thinks he knows you, or you remind him of some dead daughter, or sister—or sweetheart, or—oh, there might be any one of a dozen reasons why he would want to stare at you. I think he's harmless, though. He probably won't ever try to speak to you—just take it out in following you around and looking at you."
"Oh," I gasped, "do you think he's going to keep this up?"
"Looks like it," Lillian returned, "but simply ignore him. He has all the ear-marks of a gentleman. I don't think he will annoy you. Now forget him and enjoy your ice, and then we'll go and get that hat."
Under Lillian's guidance the selection of the hat proved an easy task.
Lillian bade me good-by at the door of the hat shop.
"You don't need me any longer, do you?" she asked, "now that this hat question is settled?"
"No, no, Lillian," I returned, "and I am awfully grateful to you for giving me so much of your time."
"'Til Wednesday, then," Lillian said, "good-by."