“I think you’re very silly,” she said. “Oh, there was something I wanted to tell you, Mr. Anderson.”
“You may call me Timothy,” he said.
“I don’t want to call you Timothy,” she replied.
He shook his head with a pained expression.
“It’ll be ever so much more sociable if you call me Timothy and I call you Mary.”
“We can be very sociable without that familiarity,” she said severely. “I was just going to tell you something.”
They sat on the grass together, on the shadow fringe of a big oak and the spring sunshine wove its restless arabesques on her lap.
“Do you know,” she said after a pause, “that last night I had two queer experiences and I was scared; oh, scared to death!”
“Eating things at night,” said Timothy oracularly, “especially before you go to bed——”
“I wasn’t dreaming,” she said indignantly, “nor was it a nightmare. I won’t tell you if you’re so horrid.”