She laughed merrily.
“How do you like my binding?” he asked, when they had ridden awhile in silence.
She looked up with a question.
“The binding of my book, I mean,” he explained.
“It is a good color.”
He felt his hope rather damped.
“Will you let me read a little from it?”
“With pleasure. You shall have an audience in the drawing-room, after luncheon.”
“Oh, Lufa! how could you think I would read my own poems to a lot of people!”
“I beg your pardon! Will the summer-house do?”