"Oh, don't tack the Miss on," I implored. "Call me Cornelia ... or better still, Nic, as Dad does. I do resent your coming so soon. I resent your coming at all. And, oh, it is such a satisfaction to tell you so."
He smiled with his eyes ... a deep, black, velvety smile. But he shook his head sorrowfully.
"I must be getting very old," he said. "It's a sign of age when a person finds himself unwelcome and superfluous."
"Your age has nothing to do with it," I retorted. "It is because Stillwater is the only place I have to run wild in ... and running wild is all I'm fit for. It's so lovely and roomy I can lose myself in it. I shall die or go mad if I'm cooped up on our little pocket handkerchief of a lawn."
"But why should you be?" he inquired gravely.
I reflected ... and was surprised.
"After all, I don't know ... now ... why I should be," I admitted. "I thought you wouldn't want me prowling about your domains. Besides, I was afraid I'd meet you ... and I don't like meeting men. I hate to have them around ... I'm so shy and awkward."
"Do you find me very dreadful?" he asked.
I reflected again ... and was again surprised.
"No, I don't. I don't mind you a bit ... any more than if you were Dad."