“You were speaking of qualities, not accomplishments,” I said. A horrible suspicion that she was having a little fun at my expense crossed my mind.
“Very good, then. You must admit that he is generous to a fault, amiable; and persevering, else he would never have attained the position he enjoys. And his affection for you, Mr. Crocker, is really touching, considering how little he gets in return.”
“Come, Miss Thorn,” I said severely, “this is ridiculous. I don't like him, and never shall. I liked him once, before he took to writing drivel. But he must have been made over since then. And what is more, with all respect to your opinion, I don't believe he likes me.”
Miss Thorn straightened up with dignity and said:
“You do him an injustice. But perhaps you will learn to appreciate him before he leaves Mohair.”
“That is not likely,” I replied—not at all pleasantly, I fear. And again I thought I observed in her the same desire to laugh she had before exhibited.
And all the way back her talk was of nothing except the Celebrity. I tried every method short of absolute rudeness to change the subject, and went from silence to taciturnity and back again to silence. She discussed his books and his mannerisms, even the growth of his popularity. She repeated anecdotes of him from Naples to St. Petersburg, from Tokio to Cape Town. And when we finally stopped under the porte cochere I had scarcely the civility left to say good-bye.
I held out my hand to help her to the ground, but she paused on the second step.
“Mr. Crocker,” she observed archly, “I believe you once told me you had not known many girls in your life.”
“True,” I said; “why do you ask?”