"I don't get to do anything like this very often—only when I come here," he said, apologizing for accepting his turn when it came.
"Don't you live at home?" asked Mary Alice.
"Well, no," he answered, "I'd hardly call what I do 'living at home.'"
There was something about the way he said it that made Mary Alice feel sorry for him; but she didn't like to ask any more questions.
They had a delightful time. Mary Alice had never met a man she enjoyed so much. He liked to "play" as much as Godmother did, and they talked most confidentially about their likes and dislikes, many of which seemed to be mutual. Mary Alice admitted to him how she disliked to meet strangers, and he admitted to her that he felt the very same way.
Godmother tarried and tarried, and at six o'clock the gentleman said he must go.
"Oh, dear!" sighed Mary Alice. "I'm sorry! I'm having such a nice time."
"So am I," he echoed gallantly, "but I'm hoping you will ask me again."
"Indeed I will!" she cried. "We seem to—to get on together beautifully."
"We do," he agreed, "and if it's a rare experience for you, I don't mind telling you it is for me too."