"Then I think I will go out to lunch somewhere—"
"I'm not going to let you get away," he said, laughing. "You're too good to be real; I'm worried half to death for fear that you'll vanish in a golden cloud, or something equally futile and inconsiderate. No, I want you to stay. You don't mind, do you?"
He was aiding her to descend from her eyrie, her little white hand balanced on his arm. When she set foot on the floor she looked up at him gravely:
"You wouldn't let me do anything that I ought not to, would you, Mr.
Kelly—I mean Mr. Neville?" she added in confusion.
"No. Anyway I don't know what you ought or ought not to do. Luncheon is a simple matter of routine. It's sole significance is two empty stomachs. I suppose if you go out you will come back, but—I'd rather you'd remain."
"Why?"
"Well," he admitted with a laugh, "it's probably because I like to hear myself talk to you. Besides, I've always the hope that you'll suddenly become conversational, and that's a possibility exciting enough to give anybody an appetite."
"But I have conversed with you," she said.
"Only a little. What you said acted like a cocktail to inspire me for a desire for more."
"I am afraid that you were not named Kelly in vain."