"Good-by, Alice," he said, holding out his hand.
"Good-by, Lloyd," she answered in a dull, tired voice, putting down the book and giving him her own little hand.
As he turned to go he picked up the volume and his eye fell on the fly leaf.
"Why," he started, "what is this?" He looked more closely at the words, then sharply at her.
"I—I'm so sorry," she stammered. "Have I spoiled your book?"
"Never mind the book, but—how did you come to write this?"
"I—I didn't notice what I wrote," she said, in confusion.
"Do you mean to say that you don't know what you wrote?"
"I don't know at all," she replied with evident sincerity.
"It's the damnedest thing I ever heard of," he muttered. And then, with a puzzled look: "See here, I guess I've been too previous. I'll cut out that banquet to-night—that is, I'll show up for soup and fish, and then I'll come to you. Do I get a smile now?"