He came very close, dear Dairy, and sudenly I saw in his eyes the horible truth. He thought me in Love with him, and sending for him while the Familey was out.
Words cannot paint my agony of Soul. I stepped back, but he siezed my hand, in a caresing gesture.
“Bab!” he said. “Dear little Bab!”
Had my afections not been otherwise engaged, I should have thriled at his accents. But, although handsome and of good familey, although poor, I could not see it that way.
So I drew my hand away, and retreated behind a sofa.
“We must have an understanding, Carter,” I said. “I have sent for you, but not for the reason you seem to think. I am in desparate Trouble.”
He looked dumfounded.
“Trouble!” he said. “You! Why, little Bab——”
“If you don’t mind,” I put in, rather petishly, because of not being little, “I wish you would treat me like almost a debutante, if not entirely. I am not a child in arms.”
“You are sweet enough to be, if the arms might be mine.”