“I’m not so sure,” said Gilbert.
“Why, look!” cried Mrs. Farrell, taking up a delicate shade of blue and holding it against one cheek, while she fixed her eyes upon his with businesslike preoccupation. “There! don’t you see how we take the life out of each other? Don’t you see that it perfectly kills me?”
“Well, I don’t know. I should say that the worsted was getting the worst of it.”
“Worsted and worsted; a pun or an opinion?” demanded Mrs. Farrell, still holding the color to her cheek, and her eyes on his.
“Oh, either; one’s as good as the other.”
“I don’t believe you meant either. I’m sorry you can’t help me about matching these wools, and I’ve a great mind to make use of you in another way. But I don’t suppose you would do it,” she said, glancing up at him as she straightened the skeins of yarn by slipping them over her two hands.
“What do you wish to do?”
“Why, I wish to wind these skeins into little balls, and—”
“Me to hold them, as you’re doing, whilst you wind? I don’t mind that.”
“Really? I think it’s the silliest position in the world for a man; and I can’t let you. No, no; you shall not.”