In hot haste, Barth felt about for his glasses; but they were tangled in his buttons, and he missed them.
“Oh, rather!” he assented hurriedly. “Do have another scone.”
Notwithstanding her indignation, Nancy laughed. Barth’s accent was so like that of an elderly uncle bribing a naughty child to goodness by means of a stick of candy.
“Thank you, I always like hot biscuits,” she assented. Then, for the second time, she put her elbows on the table and sat resting her chin upon her clasped hands. “Mr. Barth,” she said meditatively; “has it ever occurred to you that I may possibly be proud of having been born an American?”
Barth peered up at her in near-sighted curiosity.
“Oh, no,” he answered.
Nancy’s eyes were fixed thoughtfully upon him, taking in every detail of his earnest face, honest and boyish, and likable withal.
“Well,” she reiterated slowly; “I am.”
“And you wouldn’t rather be English, if you could?” Barth queried, with an eagerness for which she was at a loss to account.
“No. Why should I?”