Bartlett, with a smile.—"Well, on reflection, I don't know that I did, either. I think they must have come without being expected. Upon my word, I'm tempted to propose something very ridiculous."
Constance, uneasily.—"Yes? What is that?"
Bartlett.—"That you'll let me try to guess you out. I've failed so miserably in my own case, that I feel quite encouraged."
Constance, morbidly.—"I'm not worth the trouble of guessing out."
Bartlett.—"That means no. You always mean no by yes, because you can't bear to say no. That is the mark of a very deep and darkling nature. I feel that I could go on and read your mind perfectly, but I'm afraid to do it. Let's get back to myself. I can't allow that you've failed to read my mind aright; I think you were careless about it. Will you give your intuitions one more chance?"
Constance, with an anxious smile.—"Oh yes."
Bartlett.—"All those traits and tastes which we both find so unexpected in me are minor matters at the most. The great test question remains. If you answer it rightly, you prove yourself a mind-reader of wonderful power; if you miss it— The question is simply this: Do I like smoking?"
Constance, instantly, with a quick, involuntary pressure of her handkerchief to her delicate nostrils.—"Oh, yes, indeed!"
Bartlett, daunted and reddening.—"Miss Wyatt, you have been deluding me. You are really a mind-reader of great subtlety."
Constance.—"I don't know—I can't say that it was mind-reading exactly." She lifts her eyes to his, and in his embarrassment he passes his hand over his forehead and then feels first in one pocket, and then in the other for his handkerchief; suddenly he twitches it forth, and with it a pipe, half a dozen cigars, and a pouch of smoking tobacco, which fly in different directions over the floor. As he stoops in dismay and sweeps together these treasures, she cries: "Oh, it didn't need all that to prove it!" and breaks into a wild, helpless laugh, and striving to recover herself with many little moans and sighs behind her handkerchief, laughs on and on: "Oh, don't! I oughtn't! Oh dear, oh dear!" When at last she lies spent with her reluctant mirth, and uncovers her face, Bartlett is gone, and it is her mother who stands over her, looking down at her with affectionate misgiving.