"Oh, not at all; it's all right, I assure you. I don't mind. Only—I've changed; that's all."
"Were you very wicked?"
She asked the question gravely; the mischief lay only in her eyes.
"Oh—I—hum! Why, I don't know that I was actually wicked."
He was squirming most unaccountably for a young man with a Billy Kellogg past, and Rosalind was speedily becoming more mystified. She felt that she was looking upon a miracle—and was not entirely sure that she approved of it.
Wickedness, or what passed for it in the average youth of her world, was infinitely more entertaining than the goodness of a young man who patterned his life after the hero of the Rollo books.
"You were simply thoughtless, I presume," she remarked.
"Thoughtless? Indeed I was—very."
"Tell me about it."
Rosalind was not wholly averse to the practise of a woman's wiles. Here was a young man, she decided, who was vulnerable to the most ancient wile of all—flattery of feminine sympathy and curiosity.