“No, I know.” She cut him short. “Mother told me: you’re a gree-at success. You came on business.--Please don’t interrupt; I’ve something most important to tell you. I do want you to approve of me to-day-- to-day most especially. That’s why I didn’t get up till eleven.” She saw the smile creeping round the edges of his mouth. “I didn’t mean that the way you thought. You’re looking sarcastic and--and I hate sarcastic persons. I stayed in bed to get rested that I might look my prettiest, because----- Presently I’ll tell you. I’ve done something terrible; No, I won’t tell you now--later. But promise you’ll forgive me.” “Forgive you!” His voice trembled. Had he dared, he would have slipped his arm about her; but she had huddled herself closer into her corner. “I’ll forgive you anything, if you’ll do one thing to please me.” He waited for her to ask him what it was; but her strategic faculty for silence again asserted itself. She sat, not looking at him, with her eyes shaded. It was a childish longing that prompted him to make his request. “I want to see your hands,” he whispered. “They’re so beautiful. It’s a shame to keep them covered. On my word of honor,” he sank his voice, “I won’t--won’t take advantage.” She considered poutingly whether she would grant the favor. “The first I’ve ever asked,” he urged. The smile came like sunshine flashing through cloud. “That kind is rarely the last.” She pulled off the glove from her right-hand, Miss Self-Reliance, because it was furthest from him. “When I was very little,” she said, “I used to ask you whether I was pretty. You used to drizzle in those days; all you’d tell me was, ’You have beautiful hands.’ Then Bones and I would steal away and cry in the currant-bushes. D’you remember?” “I must have been a grudging little beast.” “No, you were a nice boy when you weren’t quite horrid. But if I were to ask you now, ’Do you think I’m pretty?’ Please don’t answer. I’m not asking. But because of all that--the times we used to have--let’s be good playfellows while it lasts. We won’t say silly things or do silly things. Let’s be tremendously sensible. There! That’s a bargain.” It wasn’t. If being in love wasn’t sensible, the last thing he wanted was to be sensible. He hadn’t come to America to be sensible in her meaning of the word. But the swiftness with which she took his consent for granted left no room for argument. She might mistake his arguing for drizzling--the fault which she held the most in contempt. So he kept both his tongue and his hands quiet, doing his best to forget all the ardent scenes which his imagination had conjured.