"Nor me," said she, with serene candour. "And I fear that I lack as much in knowledge and experience as I do in years, Mr. Drogue. For I think no evil, nor perhaps even recognize it when I meet it, deeming the world kind, and all folk unwilling to do me a wrong."
"I—kissed you."
"Was that a wrong you did me?"
"Have not others kissed you?" said I, turning red and feeling mean.
But she laughed outright, telling me that it concerned herself and not me what she chose to let her lips endure. And I saw she was a very child, all unaccustomed, yet shyly charmed by flatteries, and already vaguely aware that men found her attractive, and that she also was not disinclined toward men, nor averse to their admiration.
"How many write you verses?" I asked uneasily.
"Gentlemen are prone to verses. Is it unbecoming of me to encourage them to verse?"
"Why, no...."
"Did you think the verses fine you heard in the orchard?"
"Oh, yes," said I, carelessly, "but smacking strong of Major André's verses to his several Sacharissas."