“Ah, now don’t be severe, Miss Alden!” he cried with the note of sincerity. “Please don’t be severe. I want you to like me—awfully.”
“To like you awfully? You mustn’t laugh at me then when I make mistakes. I regard it as my right—as a free-born American—to make as many mistakes as I choose.”
“Upon my word I didn’t laugh at you,” the young man pleaded.
“And not only that,” Bessie went on; “but I hold that all my mistakes should be set down to my credit. You must think the better of me for them.”
“I can’t think better of you than I do,” he declared.
Again, shadily, she took him in. “You certainly speak very well to young ladies. But why don’t you address the House?—isn’t that what they call it?”
“Because I’ve nothing to say.”
“Haven’t you a great position?” she demanded.
He looked a moment at the back of his glove. “I’ll set that down as one of your mistakes—to your credit.” And as if he disliked talking about his position he changed the subject. “I wish you’d let me go with you to the Tower and to Hampton Court and to all those other places.”
“We shall be most happy,” said Bessie.