“No, don’t protest,” Alison raised her hand. “I think for a little while you thought you cared, but you are bravely over it, and I am very glad of it. When a man begins to tell a girl how pleased his mother and sisters will be before he has said a word of his own feelings, it is quite evident that he is not as much in love as he would have it believed he is. We have been good friends and we will continue so to the end of the chapter. I am devoted to your mother and the girls, and I know exactly how they feel towards me, for they have told me so. I know, too, that my sister and yours have hashed up some sort of scheme by which they think our future is to be arranged; but we are not puppets to be pulled by a string and I shall marry a man of my own selection if it happens to be Bud Haley or a Mexican greaser.” “You wouldn’t marry a greaser, Alison; you couldn’t.” “Why not? I would if I loved him.” “Could you love one?” “I don’t know. Like the boy who was asked if he could play the violin I can answer, ‘I don’t know; I never tried.’ Some of those Mexicans are very handsome. If Lolita had a brother as fascinating as she is, I am sure I could not resist him.” By what fatality, thought Blythe, had the conversation turned upon that subject? “Oh, yes, Lolita,” he began lamely and then stopped. But something in his tone and in his embarrassed manner, a quick and suspicious look that he cast upon his companion, suddenly gave her an inspiration. “Blythe Van Dorn,” she said, leaning towards him, “why were you late for supper?” There was mockery, a confidential sort of sympathy and amusement in her voice. “Why do you ask?” he said, nervously digging holes with his stick. “I shouldn’t think you would be particularly interested after you have just refused me.” Alison’s laugh rang out unaffectedly. “Now, look here, Blythe Van Dorn, don’t pretend any longer; you don’t have to. I am sure I don’t know why in the world you asked me that silly question a while ago, unless you had promised your mother you would, for you know perfectly well that you are not a bit cut up about my answer. Confess, are you?” He remained silent for a minute. “You are the only girl about here that is worth having,” he remarked after the pause. “That’s begging the question. I am not the only girl in the world. There’s--Lolita.” Blythe threw away his stick. “That’s all nonsense. You know it is out of the question.”