Becky ate little cream cakes with fluted crusts, and drank Orange Pekoe.
"I am glad you don't wear flowing silks and velvet mantles," said Archibald, suddenly; "I shall always remember you like this, Becky, in your rough brown coat and your close little hat, and
that your hand was on my arm when we walked across the Common. Do you like me as a playmate, Becky?"
"Yes."
"Do you—love me—as a playmate?" He leaned forward.
"Please—don't."
"I beg your—pardon——" he flushed. "I am not going to say such things to you, Becky, and spoil things for both of us—I know you don't want to hear them——"
"Make-believe is much nicer," she reminded him steadily.
"But I am not a make-believe friend, am I? Our friendship—that at least is—real?"
Her clear eyes met his. "Yes. We shall always be friends—forever——"