“You’re the queerest girl in the world. One minute you snub a person, the next you are the jolliest girl going, and then you get as grave and earnest as a fellow’s mother would be.”
“Yes, I am queer. If you had any sense, you’d have nothing to do with me. I’m more queer, too. I am given to something which a man never pardons in a woman. You will draw away as though I were a snake when you hear.”
“What is it?”
“I am given to writing stories, and literary people predict I will yet be an authoress.”
He laughed—his soft, rich laugh.
“That’s just into my hand. I’d rather work all day than write the shortest letter; so if you will give me a hand occasionally, you can write as many yarns as you like. I’ll give you a study, and send for a truck-load of writing-gear at once, if you like. Is that the only horror you had to tell me?”
I bowed my head.
“Well, I can have you now,” he said gently, folding me softly in his arms with such tender reverence that I cried out in pain, “Oh, Hal, don’t, don’t!” and struggled free. I was ashamed, knowing I was not worthy of this.
He flushed a dusky red.
“Am I so hateful to you that you cannot bear my touch?” he asked half wistfully, half angrily.