“Do you know what I think, Miss Holly?” he asked.
“No,” said Holly, looking about her in a very preoccupied way in search of more blossoms.
“I think you’re a little bit resentful because I’ve come to share your Eden. I believe you were playing that you were Eve and that you were all alone here except for the serpent.”
“Playing!” said Holly, warmly. “Please, how old do you think I am, Mr. Winthrop?”
“My dear young lady,” answered Winthrop, gravely, “I wouldn’t think of even speculating on so serious a subject. But supposing you are very, very old, say seventeen—or even eighteen!—still you haven’t, I hope, got beyond the age of make-believe. Why, even I—and, as you will readily see, I have one foot almost in the grave—even I sometimes make-believe.”
“Do you?” murmured Holly, very coldly.
There was silence for a moment during which Holly added further prizes to her store and Winthrop followed her and watched her in mingled admiration and amusement—admiration for the grace and beauty and sheer youth of her, amusement at her evident resentment.
“I’m sorry,” he said presently, slowly and thoughtfully.
“At what?” Holly allowed herself a fleeting look at his face. It was very serious and regretful, but the smile still lurked in the dark eyes, and Holly’s vanity flew to arms again.
“Sorry that I’ve said something to displease you,” returned Winthrop. “You see, I was hoping to make friends with you, Miss Holly.”