"I do not want to shake you! I'm just busy."
"Edith, I care a lot about you. I don't care much for girls, as a rule. But you're not girly. And every time I try to talk to you, you sidestep me."
"Now, Johnny—"
"But I'm going to tell you, all the same." He made a clutch at the sopping-wet hem of her skirt. "I will say it! I care an awful lot about you. I'm not a boy. I want to marry you."
There was a dead silence; then Edith said, despairingly, "Oh, Johnny, how perfectly horrid you are!" He gasped. "You simply spoil everything with this sort of ... of ... of talk."
"You mean you don't like me?" His face twitched.
"Like you? I like you awfully! That's why I'm so mad at you. Why, I'm awfully fond of you—"
"Edith!"
"I mean I never had a friend like you. I've always liked you ten times better than any silly old girl friend I ever had. I've liked you almost as much as Maurice. Of course I shall never like anybody as much as Maurice. He comes next to father and mother. But now you go and—and talk ... I just can't bear it," Edith said, and fumbled for her pocket handkerchief; "I hate talk." Her eyes overflowed.
"Edith! Look here; now, don't! Honestly, I can stand being turned down, but I can't stand—that. Edith, please! I never saw you do that—girl stunt. I'll never bother you again, if you'll just stop crying!"