“Yes!”
“Well, he didn’t stay long,” admitted the Philosopher, rather reluctantly. “Did he take another rose to damage a book with?”
She laughed.
“I’m afraid he did!”
“Come now, you’re not afraid he did. You know he did! And you know you gave it to him.”
The Philosopher’s voice was decidedly raspy. She raised her eyes to his,—her face was dimpled with smiles.
“Well, if I must be accurate—” she began.
“Of course you must!” snapped the Philosopher. “Accuracy is always desirable, and accuracy is what you women always fail in! Briefly,—to be perfectly accurate, you gave him a rose. Didn’t you?”
She nodded with a charmingly assumed air of mock penitence.
“To a noodle like that,” said the Philosopher, sternly, “the gift of a rose from you means encouragement. You have given him an inch—he will take an ell. Of course if you wish to encourage him—”