From a Bench in Our Square

by Samuel Hopkins Adams

“I’m not trying to place you,” she answered.

“Is that quite true?” he mocked.

“No; it isn’t. It’s a downright lie,” said Bobbie finding courage to raise her eyes to his.

“And now, I suppose, I shall be ‘my good man’ or something like that, to you.”

“Do you think it likely?”

“You called MacLachan that, you know,” he reminded her.

“Long ago. When I was—when I didn’t understand Our Square.”

“And now, of course, our every feeling and thought is an open book to your penetrating vision.”

Her lip quivered. “I don’t know why you should want to be so hateful to me.”

For a flashing second his eyes answered that appeal with a look that thrilled and daunted her. “To keep from being something else that I’ve no right to be,” he muttered.