"Is it so very bad?" he asked sympathetically.

She smiled at him across the tea-pot which she was holding up to
be filled.

"That shows how seldom you come there. Why don't you come
oftener?"

"When I do come, it's not to look at Mrs. Peniston's furniture."

"Nonsense," she said. "You don't come at all--and yet we get on
so well when we meet."

"Perhaps that's the reason," he answered promptly. "I'm afraid I
haven't any cream, you know--shall you mind a slice of lemon
instead?"

"I shall like it better." She waited while he cut the lemon and
dropped a thin disk into her cup. "But that is not the reason,"
she insisted.

"The reason for what?"

"For your never coming." She leaned forward with a shade of
perplexity in her charming eyes. "I wish I knew--I wish I could
make you out. Of course I know there are men who don't like
me--one can tell that at a glance. And there are others who are
afraid of me: they think I want to marry them." She smiled up at
him frankly. "But I don't think you dislike me--and you can't
possibly think I want to marry you."