“And so cold and blowy!” she added. “It seems a long time ago. I like walking with you, Ramsey. You're so quiet and solid—I've always felt I could talk to you just anyhow I pleased, and you wouldn't mind. I'll miss these walks with you when we're out of college.”
He chuckled. “That's funny!”
“Why?”
“Because we've only taken four besides this: two last year, and another week before last, and another last week. This is only the fifth.”
“Good gracious! Is that all? It seemed to me we'd gone ever so often!” She laughed. “I'm afraid you won't think that seems much as if I'd liked going, but I really have. And, by the way, you've never called on me at all. Perhaps it's because I've forgotten to ask you.”
“Oh, no,” Ramsey said, and scuffed his shoes on the path, presently explaining rather huskily that he “never was much of a caller”; and he added, “or anything.”
“Well, you must come if you ever care to,” she said, with a big-sister graciousness. “The Dorm chaperon sits there, of course, but ours is a jolly one and you'd like her. You've probably met her—Mrs. Hustings?—when you've called on other girls at our old shop.”
“No,” said Ramsey. “I never was much of a—” He paused, fearing that he might be repeating himself, and too hastily amended his intention. “I never liked any girl enough to go and call on her.”
“Ramsey Milholland!” she cried. “Why, when we were in school half the room used to be talking about how you and that pretty Milla—”
“No, no!” Ramsey protested, again too hurriedly. “I never called on her. We just went walking.”