"It may be absurd, but it's true. You may not have noticed it, but it's true just the same. I don't know whether it's intentional on your part or not—and I don't know which I would rather have it, that you've meant to keep away, or that you haven't noticed that you have. I think," he added, judicially, "that not knowing that you have would be much the worse, so I choose to think you've meant to do it. And I want to know why."
He turned and looked at her again. The cheek next him was pink, and momentarily growing pinker. Sally again murmured something which sounded like "perfectly absurd." But Jarvis considered that no answer at all. The car began to climb a long grade.
"Please tell me," he urged.
"There's nothing to tell," said the girl, reluctantly. "There are ever so many of us, now, and we're naturally all together—or some of us are together—"
"And some of us aren't."
"We're just a lot of boys and girls—"
"Are we? I feel rather grown up myself."
Sally spoke quickly. "I'm not. Or, at least, I don't want to be. I want to stay a girl—a little girl, I'd be, if I could—just as long as I can. I want to have good times—all together. Not—two and two." The cheek next him was a very deep pink indeed, now.
"Do I try to make it 'two and two'?"
"You seem to."