Helen had slid herself off the table.
“That’s what I never can understand about men. If Kate were going out—and told me she was going, why—I should just demand to know where, when, how, and why, and every other old thing a curious feminine mind could think of in the way of cross-examination. But there, men surely are queer folks.”
“Good-bye, Mr. Bryant,” said Kate. She had suddenly lost something of her lightness. Her dark eyes had become very thoughtful.
Helen, on the contrary, was bubbling over with high spirits, and was loath to part from their new acquaintance.
“I hated your coming, Mr. Bryant,” she explained radiantly. “I tell you so frankly. Some day, when I know you a heap better, I’ll tell you why,” she added mysteriously. “But I’m glad now you came. And thank you for bringing the books. You’ll like Dirty O’Brien. He’s an awful scallywag, but he’s—well, he’s so quaint. I like him—and his language is simply awful. Good night.”
“Good night.”
Bill held the girl’s hand a moment or two longer than was necessary. It was such a little brown hand, and seemed almost swamped in his great palm. He released it at last, however, and smiled into her sunny gray eyes.
“I’m glad you feel that way. You know I have a sort of sneaking regard for the feller who can forget good talk, and—and explode a bit. I—I can do it myself—at times.”
Helen stood at the door as the man took his departure. The evening was still quite light, and Bill, looking back to wave a farewell, fell further as a victim to the picture she made in the framing of the doorway.