“I'm sorry I haven't been able to equal the warmth of your other correspondents,” said Cynthia, smiling at the mention of Miss Sadler.
“You've got a good many degrees yet to go,” he replied.
“I have no idea of doing so,” said Cynthia.
If Cynthia had lured him there, and had carefully thought out a plan of fanning his admiration into a flame, she could not have done better than to stand obstinately by the door. Nothing appeals to a man like resistance—resistance for a principle appealed to Bob, although he did not care a fig about that particular principle. In his former dealings with young women—and they had not been few—the son of Dudley Worthington had encountered no resistance worth the mentioning. He looked at the girl before him, and his blood leaped at the thought of a conquest over her. She was often demure, but behind that demureness was firmness: she was mistress of herself, and yet possessed a marvellous vitality.
“And now,” said Cynthia, “don't you think you had better go?”
Go! He laughed outright. Never! He would sit down under that fortress, and some day he meant to scale the walls. Like John Paul Jones, he had not yet begun to fight. But he did not sit down just yet, because Cynthia remained standing.
“I'm here now,” he said, “what's the good of going away? I might as well stay the rest of the afternoon.”
“You will find a photograph album on the table,” said Cynthia, “with pictures of all the Merrill family and their friends and relations.”
In spite of the threat this remark conveyed, he could not help laughing at it. Mrs. Merrill in her sitting room heard the laugh, and felt that she would like Bob Worthington.
“It's a heavy album, Cynthia,” he said; “perhaps you would hold up one side of it.”