I MAY STAY, MAYN'T I?
He turned to me imploringly. 'Lois,' he cried, stretching out his arms, with an appealing air, 'I may stay, mayn't I?'
I tried to be stern; but I fear 'twas a feeble pretence. 'We are two girls, alone in a house,' I answered. 'Lady Georgina, as a matron of experience, ought to have protected us. Merely to give you lunch is almost irregular. (Good diplomatic word, irregular.) Still, in these days, I suppose you may stay, if you leave early in the afternoon. That's the utmost I can do for you.'
'You are not gracious,' he cried, gazing at me with a wistful look.
I did not dare to be gracious. 'Uninvited guests must not quarrel with their welcome,' I answered severely. Then the woman in me broke forth. 'But indeed, Mr. Tillington, I am glad to see you.'
He leaned forward eagerly. 'So you are not angry with me, Lois? I may call you Lois?'
I trembled and hesitated. 'I am not angry with you. I— I like you too much to be ever angry with you. And I am glad you came—just this once—to see me.... Yes,—when we are alone—you may call me Lois.'
He tried to seize my hand. I withdrew it. 'Then I may perhaps hope,' he began, 'that some day——'