to me. But you know what I mean: I mean those
don't-touch-me kind of girls who are always thinking
you mean a lot of things when you're only trying
to be nice and friendly to them. I like to be a
brother to a girl and to go sailing with her, and fishing,
and not have her bother me about her feet getting
a little bit wet, and not scream bloody murder when
the boat gives a lurch. That's the kind of girl that's
worth having."

"And you don't find them?" laughed Lucy, looking
at him out of the corners of her eyes.

"Well, not many. Do you mind little things like
that?"

As he spoke his eyes wandered over her bare shoulders
until they rested on the blossoms, the sort of
roaming, critical eyes that often cause a woman to
wonder whether some part of her toilet has not been
carelessly put together. Then he added, with a sudden
lowering of his voice: "That's a nice posy you've
got. Who sent it?" and he bent his head as if to
smell the cluster on her bosom.

Lucy drew back and a slight flush suffused her
cheek; his audacity frightened her. She was fond
of admiration, but this way of expressing it was new
to her. The young man caught the movement and
recovered himself. He had ventured on a thin spot,