"One of the leading figures of the day. I don't suppose you'll even look at poor me to-morrow.—I was down in the bank and Mr. Temple said to send you down as soon as you came in."
"Me?" stammered Tom.
"Yes, you."
For a few seconds Tom waited, not knowing what to say or do—especially with his feet.
"You didn't notice if Roscoe was down there, did you?" he finally ventured.
"I most certainly did not," answered Miss Ellison, smiling with that same mysterious smile, as she tidied up her desk. "I have something else to think of besides Mr. Roscoe Bent."
Tom shifted from one foot to the other. "I thought you—maybe—kind of—I thought you liked him," said he.
"Oh, did you?"
He had never been quite so close to Miss Ellison before, nor engaged in such familiar discourse with her. He hesitated, moving uneasily, then made a bold plunge.
"I think you can—I think a person—I think a feller can tell if a girl kind of likes a certain feller—sort of——"