"Oh, why not?" I asked. "Wouldn't they be delighted to keep you?"
"Perhaps. I hope so. But what about you?"
"If it depended one bit on me, you'd make a long visit."
"Wouldn't you really mind seeing me hanging around--sometimes? Just at meals, you know--or to take you a drive once in awhile?"
I looked at him merrily through my talc window, for I felt happy and light-hearted, and the world seemed such a very nice place to live in at that moment.
"Do you truly need to have me answer that question?" I asked. "If you do, we can't be real friends as I thought, after all."
"You say that because you are kind--too kind to have reflected enough, perhaps. An accident--the happiest accident in the world for me--has given me a chance to see something of you, Lady Betty; but do you understand that only by an accident could a rough fellow like me have any place at all in your life, no matter how small or temporary? I don't want to take advantage of that sweet kindness of yours, which is partly all your own, and partly the essence of your youth and innocence."
"Now you are making me very cross," said I. "I won't hear you talk so. You may laugh at me, because we've known each other such a short time, but really and truly you are the best friend I've ever had. I wouldn't lose you for anyone or anything in the world, and I don't mean to, unless you get tired of me--so, there!"
"Tired of you! Good heavens, I tired of you!"
"Very well, then," said I flippantly, "so far as I'm concerned you needn't say 'good-bye' to the Valley Farm till you feel the first symptoms coming on."