Again the flush came—and her glance wavered, and fled away.
“Meanwhile,” he went on, “I am quite content to know that you think me nice to you.”
She sprang up and moved out of distance, saying as she did so, with a ravishing smile:
“Nice is comprehended in other pleasant—adjectives.”
“It is?” said he, advancing slowly toward her.
“But you, Mr. Harleston, are forbidden to guess how pleasant, or the particular adjective, until you’re permitted.”
“And you’ll permit me to guess some day—and soon.”
“Maybe so—and maybe not!” she laughed. “It will depend on the both of us—and the business in hand. Diplomats, you are well aware, are given to very disingenuous ways and methods.”
“In diplomacy,” he appended. “A diplomat, as a rule, is merely a man of a little wider experience and more mature judgment—the American diplomat alone excepted, save in the secret service. Therefore he knows his mind, and what he wants; and he usually can be depended upon to keep after it until he gets it.”
“And to want it after he gets it?” she inquired.