He bowed, and she said suddenly, “You _are_ a nice boy,” and, after he smiled and flushed and thanked her, she added, “I was afraid you weren’t nice _enough_--” And then I felt myself grow pink. “Children,” she said, after that, “I want you to come in and wait until I get on my hat, and then walk with me. Will you, or have you been walking and are you tired?” I said we weren’t and that it would be fine, and Sam echoed it and Miss Sheila put in a quick, “Good!” and turned and hurried toward the building. “Isn’t she beautiful, and lovely?” said Sam. “_Isn’t_ she?” I answered. “By jings,” he went on, “I wish Mr. Wake would come meet her. . . . Why won’t he? He got all rattled the other day when Leslie asked him to call on Miss Sheila with her--said he couldn’t talk to women, all that sort of rot, and you know he’s always simply tip-top--wonder--” “Look here, Sam,” I said, “I can’t tell you, but--” And then Miss Sheila came back and put an end to my explaining nothing to Sam, and at the same time asking him not to press the matter of Mr. Wake’s meeting Miss Sheila. She looked as pretty as I had ever seen her look. She had on a lavender voile dress that had frilly collars and cuffs on it and a broad low sash, and she had on her head a drooping hat of the most delicate pink shade with bunches of lilacs trailing from it, and the combination was beautiful. “Ready,” she said with a smile, “and whither?” I suggested going up to the Roman theater and baths, but Sam, who was that afternoon so light hearted that he was almost silly, said he’d had a bath only about two hours before, and Miss Sheila said she’d had one only a few minutes before, and that she preferred walking down hill. “But you’ll have to walk back,” I said, for I didn’t want to get _near_ Mr. Wake’s house! “Not until the sun’s lower,” said Sam. “And then we could ride,” said Miss Sheila. “Exactly Mr. Wake’s spirit,” said Sam. “She ought to know him, now oughtn’t she, Jane?” I could do nothing with him. He acted just exactly as Daddy does when we have guests and Mother tries to head him off with a little kick under the table. He always looks at her, and says, “Did you kick me, my dear? Forgotten to serve some one, or something? Let me see!” which makes it all the worse, because almost always at that point, he is serving everything in the dish to one person, or telling a story he tells about a quick remarriage--to the guest who is remarried. I imagine most men are like that. Anyway, Sam talked--no, he did what Leslie would have called “raved” about Mr. Wake, and Miss Sheila listened and questioned and wanted more. “His books,” she said, “are delightful. . . . Little phrases in them make me think of some one I knew years ago. . . . And his kindness to Jane has made me like him, too. Did you say his place is out this way?” “I did,” Sam answered, “and mighty good luck it is, too,” he added, “for it’s going to pour--come on--”