“I've been through Asheville many times and spent a summer there once.”
“Did you?”
His tones implied that he plainly regarded her as a prodigy of knowledge. His whole attitude suggested at once the mind of an alert, interested boy asking his teacher for information on a subject near to his heart. It was impossible to resist his appeal.
“Why, yes,” Mary went on in low, rapid tones. “My people live in the Kentucky mountains.”
He bent low and gently touched her arm.
“Say, we can't talk in here—I'm afraid. Would it be asking too much of you to come out in the park, sit down on a bench and tell me about it? I'll never know how to thank you, if you will?”
It was absurd, of course, such a request, and yet his interest was so keen, his deference to her superior knowledge so humble and appealing, to refuse seemed ungracious. She hesitated and rose abruptly.
“Just a moment—I'll return my books and then we'll go. You can replace this volume on the shelf where we got it.”
“Thank yoo, miss,” he responded gratefully. “You're awfully kind.”
“Don't mention it,” she laughed.