He said gaily: "When a woman becomes accustomed to chasing the family cat out of the parlour with the broom, she misses the sport when the cat migrates permanently."
"Have you migrated—permanently? O Duane! I thought you did care for me—in your own careless fashion——"
"I do. But I'm not hopelessly enamoured of your broom-stick!"
Her laugh was a little less spontaneous, as she answered:
"I know I have been rather free with my broom. I'm sorry."
"You have made some sweeping charges on that cat!" he said, laughing.
"I know I have. That was two months ago. I don't think I am the morally self-satisfied prig I was two months ago.... I'd be easier on anything now, even a cat. But don't think I mean more than I do mean, Duane," she added hastily. "I've missed you a little. I want you to be nice to me.... After all, you're the oldest friend I have except Kathleen."
"I'll be as nice as you'll let me," he said. They turned from the driveway and entered a broad wood road. "As nice as you'll let me," he repeated.
"I won't let you be sentimental, if that's what you mean," she observed.
"Why?"