"I thought so. Your enthusiasm brims over in your letters. Well, well," twitted Dr. Maynard, "who ever would have thought Al's little sister, whom I used to call 'wild-cat,' would turn into a society girl--a mighty popular one too, if _I'm_ any judge. Parties and engagements all the time, I suppose. Now I'm just curious enough to wonder," went on Dr. Maynard teasingly, while my feelings, hurt and enraged, were working up to one of their habitual explosions, "which one of all those admirers I hear mentioned in your letters sent you your pretty primroses _this_ morning." "No one sent them," I blurted out. "If you _must_ know, I bought them myself five minutes before I saw you. Those men in my letters were Ruth's friends, not mine." Dr. Maynard glanced at me sharply. "Oh," I went on fiercely, "I'm glad to know if you think that I'm happy. It shows how well you understand me. Happy! I'm perfectly miserable, if you want to know the truth. I hate and loathe and despise all this display you say I've so richly earned. I hate parties, and splurge, and sunken gardens, and pergolas, and I haven't a single solitary admirer in the world. I thought you knew me, but I see you don't. I thought if you ever came back _you'd_ understand, but you don't--not one little single bit. I thought _you_--_you_--" I stopped abruptly. There's no use trying to hide tears that run shamelessly down your cheeks. It was absolutely necessary for me to ask for my bag which Dr. Maynard held, and produce a handkerchief. He didn't say anything as I mopped my eyes. I thought perhaps he was too shocked to speak. He didn't offer me a single word of comfort--just sat and waited. I didn't look at him; and still with my face turned away I said, subdued, apologetically, "I don't see what is the matter with me lately. You mustn't mind my being so silly. I'm always getting 'weepy' for no reason at all." I opened my bag, tucked away my handkerchief, as a sign that the storm was over, and stood up. "I hope you won't think that I usually act this way with--with all those admirers of mine," I added, smiling. Dr. Maynard ignored my attempt at humour. "Lucy," he said quietly, but in a voice and manner that made me start and catch my breath, "my real reason for coming to America wasn't the will. It was you." He stopped and I looked hard into the centre of the dry pool. "I mistrusted some of your letters lately, though I confess not at first--not until last fall. You've been overdoing your enthusiasm this winter, Bobbie. So I decided to come over and find out for myself if you had been trying to deceive me. The will offered a good excuse, so here I am. And you _have_ been deceiving me--for two whole years. Why, Bobbie," he said very softly, "what shall I do to you?" I glanced up and saw the old piercing tenderness in his eyes. "Don't be kind to me," I warned hastily; "not _now_--not for anything. _Please_, or I shall cry again."