"My dear!" he murmured.
"I'm not your dear."
"No. You're not. I must remember that."
"Not a bit—to-day. I've had time to think."
"So have I."
She whirled on him. "Have you changed, too?" she demanded with animation and dismay, quaintly negligent of the implied inconsistency.
"No. I haven't changed."
"I'm glad," said she naïvely. Then, stealing a glance at him, "Do you still like me—a little?"
A little? How much did he "like" this bewitching child? Was "like" a sufficient word at all for the feeling which had taken such puzzling growth within him? He could not have answered the query to himself satisfactorily, and had no intention of defining his attitude for her benefit.
"Tell me," she whispered. "I think you might."