"If I do you will think me horribly conceited." I hesitate and blush uneasily. For the first time it occurs to me that I have a very uncomfortable story to relate.
"I will not," says Mr. Carrington, amiably.
"Well then, the fact is, down at the trout-river, the day before yesterday, somebody saw you kissing a picture in a locket, and I feared if you mentioned having my portrait they might—they take up such ridiculous fancies at home—they might think it was mine."
"Is it possible they would imagine anything so unlikely?"
"Of course"—with eager haste—"I know it was not, but they might choose to think differently; and, besides, something has whispered to me two or three times since that perhaps I was wrong in giving my photograph to you at all. Was I?" wistfully.
"That is a hard question to ask me, Phyllis, who am so happy in the possession of it. I certainly do not think you were."
"Then you would see no harm in my giving my picture to any one?"
"Of course I do not say it would be right of you to go about giving it to every man you meet."
"No? Then why should I give it to you in particular. After all, I believe I was wrong."
"Oh, that is quite another thing altogether," says Mr. Carrington, biting his lip. "You have known me a long time; I may almost be considered an old friend. And, besides, you can be quite sure that I will prize it as it deserves."