"Not all of them. The one that—that spoke about the play——" She stopped with her hand to her throat.
For a moment he studied her working face. "It's hardly worth while, is it?" he said gravely. "You've come to the end of that phase, haven't you? How old are you, Pat?"
"Eighteen. Almost. And I've been a terrible necker ever since—since I began to be grown up. Most girls are."
"Are they? Why?"
"I don't know. The boys sort of expect it," she answered childishly. "And it's—it's fun, in a way." She wriggled like a very schoolgirl. "I got Billy away from Celia Bly that way. And now look at the damn thing!" She laughed and the tension was temporarily relieved. "Anyway," she declared resolutely, "here and now is where I quit. There's nothing in it. Unless," she added with an astounding naïveté, "it's somebody that I'm quite crazy about." Anger and pain had left a faint fire still in the eyes which she turned to his. "I'm glad it was you that were with me when it happened, Mr. Scott."
"I was afraid that it only made it the harder for you."
"No. Because you understand." He was by no means sure that he understood at all, but he made no denial. "Have you got any daughters?"
"No."
"I wish I'd had someone like you that I could talk to," she said wistfully. "Dad's all right. I adore Dad. But I couldn't talk to him like this. I can to you. Isn't it funny! Do you like me a little, Mr. Scott?" Her face, upturned to his, was one anxious, honest, hopeful plea.
"Yes. I like you very much," he returned soberly.