"I'm not quite sure that I understand."
"Oh, you know! You must know!"
He laughed. "Really, Miss Payson, it's very flattering, of course—"
"Oh, no, it's not in the least flattering."
"I wish you'd explain, then." He leaned back, folded his arms and waited indulgently. So long as he could keep the conversation personal, he was sure of being able to manage her, and further his own ends. It amused him.
She busied herself with a lace handkerchief as she continued, in a low voice, as if she were ridding herself of a disagreeable task, and always with the slow, monotonous turning of her questing eyes toward him, and away. "Of course I've heard many things about you—you're a good deal talked about, you know; but it's not that at all—it's an instinctive knowledge I have about you. I can't explain it. It's a queer special feeling—almost as if, in some way, I had the right to know. That's why I wanted to see you again—I hoped you'd come. I wanted to tell you."
"But all that certainly is flattering," he said. "I wouldn't be human if I weren't pleased to hear that you're interested, even if—"
She could not help breaking into smiles again, as she interrupted him.
"Oh, but I haven't told you yet."
"Please do, then!"