Amory felt a pang as she stood up. Not to see her again—why, that was absurd! Why should he not see her? She had quarrelled with Tom, yes, and perhaps the family might be hard on her; but he—he understood, and why should he shake off her acquaintance? She was not for Tom. Well, it was just as well. How could any one think this girl would suit Tom—big-bearded, clumsy, excellent fellow that he was?
He put out his hand. “Mary,” he said. The girl stared at him with eyes suddenly wide open; he smiled into them.
“I have a right to call you that,” he proceeded, “haven't I? I might have been your brother.” He took her hand, and then laughed a little. “I am almost glad I am not. You wouldn't have suited Tom, and as a sister, somehow, you wouldn't have suited me!” He laughed again. “But”—he hesitated; she still stared straight up at him with her soft, dark eyes, and he thought them very beautiful—“but why shouldn't I see you—not as a brother, but an acquaintance—friend? You say you need them. Tell me where you have this room of yours?”
The vivid beauty of her blush startled him, and she drew her hand quickly from his.
“Oh no!” she said, hurriedly. “Let things drop between us; here—forever.”
Amory stood before her with an expression which reminded her of his description of himself—obstinate; yes, he looked it.
“Why?” he urged. “Just because you are not to marry Tom, is there any reason why we should not like each other—is there? That is—if we do! I do,” he laughed. “Do you?”
Her lids had dropped; she looked very slim, and young, and shy. “Yes,” she said.
It gave Amory a good deal of pleasure for a monosyllable.
“Well, then, your number?” he said.