It was not difficult. He had already been attracted to her the evening before, and he was delighted with her this afternoon. The time fairly flew. They had tea together at five o’clock; and after what seemed only a few minutes, it was seven.
“Let’s go out somewhere and have dinner,” said he.
“Oh!” said Emily. “I’d like to, but—aren’t there other things you have to do?”
She was thinking of his mother.
“I never have anything to do,” Cecil assured her cheerfully. “That’s the great advantage of being hopelessly incompetent. I can’t do anything, you know.”
“I don’t believe that. I’m sure you could do almost anything, if you tried,” said Emily.
She hadn’t meant to say it in quite that tone, or with quite that admiring glance, and she grew a little red as he returned the glance with interest.
“I’m never going to try,” said he. “Once you start, people begin to expect things of you.” He paused. “But if there’s anything you’d like done, Emily—”
She had no more poise left then than you could put into a thimble. She had a favor to ask of Cecil, and she felt sure he would grant it. She was determined to ask it,[Pg 164] too, and saw no reason why she should not, and yet—and yet, in spite of his kindliness, Cecil made her uneasy and confused.
“I just thought,” she began, “that if you were going to write to Denis—”