"It’s perfectly outrageous," she said, tearing up what she had written, and moving aside a little so that sufficient space remained for—her sister, perhaps. So he entered the summer house and waited for an invitation, bland, cheerful, irresistible. "I had no idea I was so pitiably weak-minded," she said. He accepted the avowal as his invitation, and seated himself. "Silvette," he said genially, "what are we going to do to-day?" "Who?" "Why, you and I. Who cares what the others do in this mad world, dear lady?" "I don’t know about the world," she said, "but there’s one girl in it who is mad; and she’s going to her room to write letters." "When?" "Now!" "Don’t." "Indeed, I shall!" "Shall, or will?" he inquired, guilelessly, "People mix up those two auxiliaries so persistently that there’s no telling what anybody really means in these days." She considered a moment, then turned and looked at him. "Jack," she said sweetly, "don’t follow me about?" "I? Follow _you_! That’s more madness, dear lady. Who on earth ever whispered to you that I could ever do such a——" "Won’t you be serious, please?" Her pretty, dark eyes were serious enough, even appealing. He became solemn at once. "You have forced me to say this," she ventured. "I didn’t wish to; I thought you’d understand, but you don’t seem to. So I am compelled to say to you that—it is—better taste for you to—not to——" She hesitated, glanced up at him, colored brightly. "You know perfectly well what I mean! And there you sit, letting me try to tell you as nicely as I can——" "About what, dear lady?" "About you and me!" she said, incensed. "You know perfectly well that I’ve been obliged to avoid being alone with you." "Why?" "Because," she said, intensely annoyed, "I am employed by your parents, and you are an only son of Mr. Jacob Rivett.... Is that unmistakable?" He said nothing. She went on: "You know I like you, Jack. You seem to like me. If you do, you’ll understand that this—this continually seeking me out, separating me from the others, isn’t fair to me.... I’m trying not to talk nonsense about it. I know you mean nothing but kindness; but it isn’t wise, and it is not agreeable, either. So let us enjoy our very delightful friendship as freely among others as we do when alone together—" She stopped abruptly, blushed to her hair, furious at herself, astonished that her tongue could have blundered so. The next instant she understood that he was too decent to notice her blunder. Indeed, to look at him, she almost persuaded herself that he had not even heard her speak, so coolly remote were his eyes, so preoccupied his air as he sat facing the far hills, blue in the July haze. Presently he looked up at her. "What was it you were lecturing me about?" he asked cheerfully. "About our twosing, Jack." "Did you say you _did_ prefer it, or otherwise?"