“Of course I am. I only wish you said it oftener. If you would only promise me to say every morning and every evening ‘What a silly boy Arthur is,’ I’d feel better about going home so often.”
“It wouldn’t be a difficult promise to make,” she says thoughtfully. “Perhaps I do it anyway. You’re awfully silly sometimes.”
“Good! At any rate, that would mean that you would say my name twice a day.”
“Heavens!”
“It did sound sentimental, didn’t it? Well, forget it. You know, I am serious about Bob: I wish he’d dislike me a little more actively.”
She sits up and speaks with decision. “Arthur! You know well enough that Bob doesn’t dislike you at all.”
“Is that it?” you ask, sorrowfully. “Then it’s his maddening indifference that I can’t forgive him. I won’t forgive him, anyway, so you might as well give up.”
“If it would make you feel any better, he said just the other evening, ‘Why doesn’t that kid get to work? He’s been hanging around here a lot longer than he would if I were his father.’”
“Yes,” you answer, “that helps. That helps. I feel almost kindly toward him now. I’m glad you told me.”
“You know well enough you like Bob!”