She shook her head slowly. "Really, I haven't, Mr. Norman."
He eyed her with cynical amused suspicion. "Why did you call me Mr. Norman just then? Usually you don't call me at all. It's been weeks since you have called me Mister. Was your doing it just then one of those subtle, adroit, timely tricks of yours?"
She was the picture of puzzled innocence. "I don't understand," she said.
"Well—perhaps you don't," said he doubtfully. "At any rate, don't call me Mr. Norman. Call me Fred."
"I can't. It isn't natural. You seem Mister to me. I always think of you as Mr. Norman."
"That's it. And it must stop!"
She smiled with innocent gayety. "Very well—Fred. . . . Fred. . . . Now that I've said it, I don't find it strange." She looked at him with an expression between appeal and mockery. "If you'd only let me get acquainted with you. But you don't. You make me feel that I've got to be careful with you—that I must be on my guard. I don't know against what—for you are certainly the very best friend that I've ever had—the only real friend."
He frowned and bit his lip—and felt uncomfortable, though he protested to himself that he was simply irritated at her slyness. Yes, it must be slyness.
"So," she went on, "there's no reason for being on guard. Still, I feel that way." She looked at him with sweet gravity. "Perhaps I shouldn't if you didn't talk about love to me and kiss me in a way I feel you've no right to."
Again he laid his hands upon her shoulders. This time he gazed angrily into her eyes. "Are you a fool? Or are you making a fool of me?" he said. "I can't decide which."