She knew herself properly reproved, and she reproached herself, not for what she had actually said to Kerr of Harry—that had been trivial enough—but for that wayward impulse she had to confide in this clear-eyed, whimsical stranger, as it had never occurred to her to confide in Harry.
She raised her eyes. "Certainly I shall not discuss you with him."
"Is that a promise?"
"Harry, how you do dislike him!"
"Well, suppose I do?" he shrugged.
"You've used up twice your twenty minutes," she said, "and Clara will be scandalized."
He stopped the caressing movement of his hand on her hair. "Are you afraid of Clara?" he asked.
"Mercy, yes!" She was half in earnest and half laughing. "But then I'm afraid of every one."
He put his arm affectionately around her. "But not of me?"
"Oh," she told him, "you're a great big purring pussy-cat, and I am your poor little mouse."