“Thank you, Mr. Sheridan!” she laughed.
“See here!” he cried. “Isn't there any way for us to get over this Mister and Miss thing? A month's got thirty-one days in it; I've managed to be with you a part of pretty near all the thirty-one, and I think you know how I feel by this time—”
She looked panic-stricken immediately. “Oh, no,” she protested, quickly. “No, I don't, and—”
“Yes, you do,” he said, and his voice shook a little. “You couldn't help knowing.”
“But I do!” she denied, hurriedly. “I do help knowing. I mean—Oh, wait!”
“What for? You do know how I feel, and you—well, you've certainly WANTED me to feel that way—or else pretended—”
“Now, now!” she lamented. “You're spoiling such a cheerful afternoon!”
“'Spoilin' it!'” He slowed down the car and turned his face to her squarely. “See here, Miss Vertrees, haven't you—”
“Stop! Stop the car a minute.” And when he had complied she faced him as squarely as he evidently desired her to face him. “Listen. I don't want you to go on, to-day.”
“Why not?” he asked, sharply.