"How does it strike you?" he repeated.
"I don't know," she replied without turning her head.
He rose from his seat and strolled towards her. The good-humor had faded out of his face. The lines about his mouth were more tightly drawn. It was evident that his patience was exhausted and that he was becoming angry. But Brockton never made a scene. No matter how incensed he might be, he never lost his sang froid or forgot his manners. Quietly he asked:
"Feel like quitting?"
"I can't tell," she replied in the same indifferent tone.
"So it's the newspaper man, eh?"
"That would be the only reason."
Turning quickly, he placed himself in a position so that he faced her. Looking her steadily in the eyes, he said slowly:
"You've been on the square with me this summer, haven't you?"
She instantly noted the change in his tone. Her face grew a shade paler, but she looked up at him without flinching. Quickly she said: