"Please what?" persisted Robert Morton.
"Please—please—Bob," she murmured.
He was at the other side of the table now, but she was no longer there. Instead she stood at the screen door, shaking the flour from her apron.
"Don't move!" she cried severely. "You've walked all through that flour and are tracking it about every step you take. Look at the pantry! I shall have to sweep it all up."
"I'll do it," he answered with instant penitence.
"No. You sit right down there in that chair and don't you stir. I will go and get the dustpan and brush."
"I'm awfully sorry," called Bob, plunged into the depths of despair. "I didn't realize that when you turned the handle of the darn thing the stuff went through."
"What did you think a flour-sifter was for?" asked she, dimpling.
"I wasn't thinking of flour-sifters," declared he significantly.
He saw her blush.