She took it, laying down her pen. A considerable literary discussion
ensued, during which he fetched more books from the shelves to show
her. It began to appear that he meant to spend the whole morning with
her, possibly taking it for granted that it was her desire to have him.
That idea, if he entertained it, must be corrected at once. She resumed
her pen with a business-like air.

"Deb," said he then, "do you mind if I read here for a little while? I
won't disturb you. It's so nice and quiet--away from those chattering
women--"

"Oh, certainly!" she politely acquiesced. "But don't you think
they'll want you, with all the other men away? Now's your opportunity
to be made much of."

"I don't care to be made much of just because I am the only man."

"Oh, but you would always be more than that, of course."

"I'm not more than an old fogey when the young fellows are around. They
will take no notice of me at tea-time. Well, I'm getting used to it.
I'm getting to know my place." "If that was your place, you would soon
vacate it."

"How can I vacate it?"

"When people begin to take me for an old fogey, they'll not have the
honour of my company in their houses."

"That's very well for you--wait till the time comes. And I suppose you