“Oh, dear! That is, I mean—I like you, of course,” she floundered miserably; then she broke off with a frank laugh. “There! you see I never could get out of anything. I might as well own right up. I DON'T like you as well as I do Uncle William and Mr. Bertram. So there!”
Cyril laughed. For the first time since he had seen Billy, something that was very like interest came into his eyes.
“Oh, you don't,” he retorted. “Now that is—er—very UNkind of you.”
Billy shook her head.
“You don't say that as if you meant it,” she accused him, her eyes gravely studying his face. “Now I'M in earnest. I really want to like YOU!”
“Thank you. Then perhaps you won't mind telling me why you don't like me,” he suggested.
Again Billy flushed.
“Why, I—I just don't; that's all,” she faltered. Then she cried aggrievedly: “There, now! you've made me be impolite; and I didn't mean to be, truly.”
“Of course not,” assented the man; “and it wasn't impolite, because I asked you for the information, you know. I may conclude then,” he went on with an odd twinkle in his eyes, “that I am merely classed with tripe and rainy days.”
“With—wha-at?”