"Well? He only—what?" said she.
"He only seemed—to think—to think—I liked him," said I, stumbling.
"That's truth, I don't doubt," said she; and she repeated the words: "Only seemed to think you liked him! I'd like to have seen the man, when I was a girl, who'd have dared to seem to think I liked him, before he'd made it pretty plain how much he liked me! But I don't know what's come over the girls nowadays. They haven't a scrap of self-respect."
"O but, mother, he did seem—" I began, and stopped.
"Did seem what?" says she. "Did seem to think he liked you too? Is that all?"
I wouldn't speak, for I remembered how I'd promised not to tell.
"There's a deal of 'seeming,'" said she. "Seeming this and seeming that! A few honest-spoken words would be worth a lot more than all the seeming. Kitty, did he ever tell you he loved you?"
"Not—not exactly," I whispered.
"No, not exactly, I'll be bound," says she. "Just enough to win a silly girl's heart, and just little enough to leave himself free! I know the ways of that sort."
And wasn't it true?