“Oh,” she answered, looking consciously away, “I don’t know. What makes you ask me that?”
“Oh yes, you do,” he returned. “You have some opinion of me. Tell me now, what is it?”
“No, I haven’t,” she said, innocently.
“Oh yes, you have,” he went on, pleasantly, interested by her transparent evasiveness. “You must think something of me. Now, what is it?”
“Do you mean do I like you?” she asked, frankly, looking down at the big mop of black hair well streaked with gray which hung about his forehead, and gave an almost lionine cast to his fine face.
“Well, yes,” he said, with a sense of disappointment. She was barren of the art of the coquette.
“Why, of course I like you,” she replied, prettily.
“Haven’t you ever thought anything else about me?” he went on.
“I think you’re very kind,” she went on, even more bashfully; she realized now that he was still holding her hand.
“Is that all?” he asked.