“To look at me—now and then.”
“Oh,” she cried resentfully, “don't be grateful.”
“I—really am not you know,” he said laughing.
“That,” she rejoined slowly, “is the truth. You say conventional things in a manner—in an agreeably personal manner that interests women. But you are not grateful to anybody for anything; you are indifferent, and you can't help being nice to people, so—some day—some girl will think you are grateful, and will have a miserable time of it.”
“Miserable time?”
“Waiting for you to say what never will enter your head to say.”
“You mean I—I—”
“Flirt? No, I mean that you don't flirt; that you are always dreamily occupied with your own affairs, from which listlessly congenial occupation, when drawn, you are so unexpectedly nice that a girl immediately desires to see how nice you can be.”
“What a charming indictment you draw!” he said, amused.
“It's a grave one I assure you. I've been talking about you to Grace Ferrall; I asked to be placed beside you at dinner; I told her I hadn't had half enough of you on the cliff. Now what do you think of yourself for being too nice to a susceptible girl? I think it's immoral.”