"You think," he said, pursuing his advantage, "we know too little of each other to be even friends. You are confident my tastes and pleasures are entirely different from yours; especially that my notions of real work are so different that we could never measure things with the same footrule." He looked down at her searchingly. She nodded. "Something like that," she admitted. "But that doesn't mean that either tastes or notions in either case are necessarily unworthy, only that they are different." "I wonder if they are? What if we should try to find out? I'm going to stick pretty closely to Eastman this winter, but of course I shall be in town more or less. May I come to see you, now and then, if I promise not to become bothersome?" It was her turn to look up searchingly at him. If he had expected the usual answer to such a request, he began, before she spoke, to realize that it was by no means a foregone conclusion that he should receive usual answers from her to any questioning whatsoever. But her reply surprised him more than he had ever been surprised by any girl in his life. "Mr. Kendrick," said she slowly, "I wish that you need not see me again till--suppose we say Midsummer Day,[A] the twenty-fourth of June, you know." [Footnote A: Midsummer comes at the time of the summer solstice, about June 21st, but Midsummer Day, the Feast of St. John the Baptist, is the 24th of June.] He stared at her. "If you put it that way," he began stiffly, "you certainly need not--" "But I didn't put it that way. I said I wished that you need not see me. That is quite different from wishing I need not see you. I don't mind seeing you in the least--" "That's good of you!" "Don't be angry. I'm going to be quite frank with you--" "I'm prepared for that. I can't remember that you've ever been anything else." "Please listen to me, Mr. Kendrick. When I say that I wish you would not see me--" "You said 'need not.'" "I shall have to put it 'would not' to make you understand. When I say I wish you would not see me until Midsummer I am saying the very kindest thing I can. Just now you are under the impression--hallucination--that you want to see much of me. To prove that you are mistaken I'm going to ask this of you--not to have anything whatever to do with me until at least Midsummer. If you carry out my wish you will find out for yourself what I mean--and will thank me for my wisdom." "It's a wish, is it? It sounds to me more like a decree." "It's not a decree. I'll not refuse to see you if you come. But if you will do as I ask I shall appreciate it more than I can tell you."