"That is nice of you. There's only one kind of a girl of whom men are really afraid.... And now I don't exactly know what to do about you—being, myself, as guilty and horrid as you have been."
She regarded him contemplatively, her hands joined behind her back.
"Exactly what to do about you I don't know," she repeated, leisurely inspecting him. "Shall I tell you something? I am not afraid to; I am not a bit cowardly about it either. Shall I?"
"If you dare," he said, smiling and uncertain.
"Very well, then; I rather like you, Mr. Hamil."
"You are a trump!" he blurted out, reddening with surprise.
"Are you astonished that I know you?"
"I don't see how you found out—"
"Found out! What perfectly revolting vanity! Do you suppose that the moment I left you I rushed home and began to make happy and incoherent inquiries? Mr. Hamil, you disappoint me every time you speak—and also every time you don't."
"I seem to be doomed."