"Yes; to you and me." The man paused, plunged in. "We were such frightfully good pals last summer, and now it seems as though"--another pause--"we don't hit things off a bit."
"Is that my fault or yours?" There was scarcely a hint of their old camaraderie in the girl's sulky voice.
"Mine, I suppose," he sulked back.
"Well, isn't it?" she shot at him; and at that all the self-realizations, all the heart-searchings and heart-burnings in James Wilberforce blew to one bright point of clear flame, melting his reserve as the blow-pipe melts cast iron.
"Mollie," he blurted out, "you know how I hate beating about the bush. Let's be open with one another. Let's admit that something has happened." He leaned forward in his chair, both hands on his knees. "But you aren't going to let that something make any difference, are you?"
His method irritated her to abruptness.
"You are beating about the bush, Jimmy. Why not be straight?"
"I'm trying to be straight." His hands clenched. "But it's jolly difficult. You see, there are some things that--well, that one doesn't discuss with girls."
"Isn't that rather rot nowadays?" retorted Mollie, hating herself for the slang.
"I don't think it's rot. I think there are a good many subjects a man doesn't want to discuss with--with a girl he--er--cares about."