"I'm compelled to, unluckily. I very rarely allow myself the pleasure of calling at all, you know, and—"
"But you have allowed yourself the pleasure, now, Mr. Garrott! Oh!—don't be so firm! Come in—for only a minute! You can surely spare me a minute—when I ask you to specially—"
"It is literally impossible."
Angela had extended her small hand to lead him into the parlor. Now she let it fall at her side, and stood looking at him with a conscious expression on her face, a pretty expression, but one that he scarcely liked. Of course both of them knew that it was by no means literally impossible for Mr. Garrott to come in, for only a minute. But doubtless a womanly girl could be trusted to find an explanation for his peculiar speeches that plucked their stingers from them, as it were.
"You're so strange. You're displeased with me, I can see that. Why?—because I wasn't in when you called? Why, I'm nearly always out on fine afternoons!"
"I know that," ventured the young man.
"If you'd just told me in advance.... Don't you know I'd never have gone out with Dan Jenney, if I'd dreamed you were going to call?"
He knew this also, only too well; but this time he only said: "A caller must take his chances, of course. By the way, let me thank you very much, again, for lending me that book. I found it immensely interesting."
"Oh!—'Marna'? I didn't want you to come just for that.... Did she make you think of Cousin Mary at all?"
He smiled distantly, turned away, and put on his overcoat.