"I like the way you fixed that band," said Bob; "I haven't laughed as much for a year. You hate music, don't you? I hope you'll forgive that awful noise we made outside of your house last July, Mr. Bass."
"You—you make that noise, Bob, you—you make that?"
"Well," said Bob, "I'm afraid I did most of it. There was another fellow that helped some and played the guitar. It was pretty bad," he added, with a side glance at Cynthia, "but it was meant for a compliment."
"Oh," said she, "it was meant for a compliment, was it?"
"Of course," he answered, glad of the opportunity to turn his attention entirely to her. "I was for slipping away right after supper, but my father headed us off."
"Slipping away?" repeated Cynthia.
"You see, he had a kind of a reception and fireworks afterward. We didn't get away till after nine, and then I thought I'd have a lecture when I got home."
"Did you?" asked Cynthia.
"No," said Bob, "he didn't know where I'd been."
Cynthia felt the blood rush to her temples, but by habit and instinct she knew when to restrain herself.