"That is saying very little," I return, gloomily. His reasoning seems to me poor and unsatisfactory. I begin to wish my wretched likeness back again in my untidy drawer.
"But why are you so sure it was not your picture I was caught admiring the other day?" asks Mr. Carrington, presently, with an ill-suppressed smile.
"Nonsense!" I reply angrily. (I hate being laughed at). "For what possible reason would you put my face into your locket? I knew you would think me vain when I began, but I am not—and—and I am very sorry I took the trouble to explain it to you at all."
"Forgive me, Phyllis. I did not mean to offend you, and I do not think you vain. I was merely imagining what a fatuous fool I must have looked when discovered in the act you describe. But have you no curiosity to learn who it really was I was so publicly embracing?"
"I know," I return, with a nod; "it was that little girl you told me of some time since—the village maiden, you remember, whose face was so dear to you. Am I not right!"
"Quite right. What a capital guess you made!"
"May I see her?" I ask, coaxingly. "Do let me get just one little peep at her. I am sure she is lovely, from what you say; and I do so like pretty people?"
"You would only be disappointed, and then you would say so, and I could not bear to hear one disparaging word said of my beauty."
"I will not be disappointed. Of course you have had so much experience to guide you—your taste must be better than mine. Please let me see her."
"You promise faithfully not to scorn the face I will show you? You will say no slighting word?"