Ada Warren was sitting alone. She looked, and was, in fact, a little tired, and had come there for the sake of quietness.
“I have been looking for you, Miss Warren,” was Vincent’s excuse for the intrusion. “You’ll let me sit here, won’t you?”
“I shall not be so rude as to tell you to go away,” she answered in a rather undecided tone.
“That’s good of you. Do you know I find it restful to talk to you? I do believe you’re the only person I ever spoke to quite seriously.—You don’t answer?”
“I was wondering how far that might be a compliment.”
“To the very tail of the last word.”
“And that was—ly, if you remember,” said Ada drily, giving the letter y its broader value. She looked confused as soon as she had spoken, feeling that the remark ought to have been made in a lighter tone to be quite within the limits of becoming repartee.
Vincent looked at first surprised, then leaned back and laughed.
“I’d no idea you were so witty.”
“Nor, perhaps, so ill-mannered?”