Still she sat and did not look up, but with her eyes upon the empty cup, she asked: “Would you let this be my lunch, Mr. Bromley? Would you mind if I charged it to Papa?”
“Nonsense,” he said. He had already paid the waitress. “Ah—if you intend remaining here——”
“No, I’m coming,” she said, meekly. “I just——” She rose, and as she did she looked up at him radiantly, facing him. “You—you’ve been ever so nice to me, Mr. Bromley.”
Her cheeks were glowing, her lifted happy eyes were all too worshipfully eloquent; and for a moment, as the two stood there, Mr. Bromley felt a strange little embarrassment, this time not an annoyed embarrassment. Who can know what is in a young girl’s heart? Suddenly, to his own surprise, he felt a slight, inexplicable emotion;—something in Cornelia’s look pleased him and even touched him. Just for the five or six seconds that he knew this feeling, something mysterious, something charming, seemed about to happen.
“No,” he said. “It’s you who were nice to me. I—I’ve enjoyed it—truly.”
She drew a deep breath. “Have you really?” she cried. And with that, she turned and ran to the door, all sixteen. But, with the door open, she called back to him over her shoulder, “I’m glad it’s Friday, Mr. Bromley.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s only till Monday when school begins!”