“It was only Monday,” he began.
“Monday!” she exclaimed. “I have thought of you for over a year.” She leaned towards him. “Didn’t you know? Of course you did! ... You couldn’t bear me at first.”
He denied this, blushing, but she insisted.
“You don’t know how awful it was for me yesterday when you didn’t come!” he murmured.
“Was it?” she said, under her breath. “I had some very important letters to write.” She clasped his hand.
There it was again! She spoke just like a man of business, immersed in secret schemes.
“It’s awfully funny,” he said. “I scarcely know anything about you, and yet—”
“I’m Janet’s friend!” she answered. Perhaps it was the delicatest reproof of imagined distrust.
“And I don’t want to,” he went on. “How old are you?”
“Twenty-four,” she answered sweetly, acknowledging his right to put such questions.