“Yes, you can't complain of any want of petting at last,” she returned, delighted at his indirect recognition of the difference. Then the daring, the archness, and caprice that make coquetry in some women, and lurk a divine possibility in all, came out in her; the sweetness, kept back by the whole strength of her pride, overflowed that broken barrier now, and she seemed to lavish this revelation of herself upon him with a sort of tender joy in his bewilderment. She was not hurt when he crudely expressed the elusive sense which has been in other men's minds at such times: they cannot believe that this fascination is inspired, and not practised. “Well,” he said, “I'm glad you told me that I was the first. I should have thought you'd had a good deal of experience in flirtation.” “You wouldn't have thought so if you hadn't been a great flirt yourself,” she answered, audaciously. “Perhaps I have been engaged before!” Their talk was for the most part frivolous, and their thoughts ephemeral; but again they were, with her at least, suddenly and deeply serious. Till then all things seemed to have been held in arrest, and impressions, ideas, feelings, fears, desires, released themselves simultaneously, and sought expression with a rush that defied coherence. “Oh, why do we try to talk?” she asked, at last. “The more we say, the more we leave unsaid. Let us keep still awhile!” But she could not. “Bartley! When did you first think you cared about me?” “I don't know,” said Bartley, “I guess it must have been the first time I saw you.” “Yes, that is when I first knew that I cared for you. But it seems to me that I must have always cared for you, and that I only found it out when I saw you going by the house that day.” She mused a little time before she asked again, “Bartley!” “Well?”