"Because!" said Mary Vertrees, replying to Roscoe's monosyllable.
"And also because we're next-door neighbors at table, and it's dull
times ahead for both of us if we don't get along."

Roscoe was a literal young man, all stocks and bonds, and he had been
brought up to believe that when a man married he "married and settled
down." It was "all right," he felt, for a man as old as his father to
pay florid compliments to as pretty a girl as this Miss Vertrees, but
for himself--"a young married man"--it wouldn't do; and it wouldn't
even be quite moral. He knew that young married people might have
friendships, like his wife's for Lamhorn; but Sibyl and Lamhorn never
"flirted"--they were always very matter-of-fact with each other.
Roscoe would have been troubled if Sibyl had ever told Lamhorn she
hoped he was susceptible.

"Yes--we're neighbors," he said, awkwardly.

"Next-door neighbors in houses, too," she added.

"No, not exactly. I live across the street."

"Why, no!" she exclaimed, and seemed startled. "Your mother told me
this afternoon that you lived at home."

"Yes, of course I live at home. I built that new house across the
street."

"But you--" she paused, confused, and then slowly a deep color came
into her cheek. "But I understood--"