“Try.”
“It isn’t, it isn’t you? Oh, that isn’t fair? You just made that up!”
“Oh, but it is though. Of course, I think you’re the prettiest girl in Corinth.”
He caught her in his arms and kissed her to prove it.
“Has to be some one else! Has to be some one else!” Margaret insisted, with fascinating mock childishness.
“Well, then,” Robert thought a moment, “it’s Howard Pinkney. Now are you satisfied?”
She shook her head, with a little smile.
“No. That’s just as bad. He tells me that himself every time I see him. But I’ll tell you anyway.”
The compliment was a minor one. Some elderly, romantic woman, whom Robert dimly remembered, had thought he looked like a poet—like a picture she had of Rupert Brooke—a far-fetched likeness.
“And now,” Margaret was standing at the door, her head thrown back, her eyes shining like dark stars: