"You don't act a bit like Miss Jane." As he spoke he leaned
forward and flicked an imaginary something from her bare wrist with
that air which always characterized his early approaches to most women.

"Why?" Lucy asked, pleased at his attentions and thanking him with a
more direct look.

"Oh, I don't know. You're more jolly, I think. I don't like girls who
turn out to be solemn after you know them a while; I was afraid you
might. You know it's a long time since I saw you."

"Why, then, sister can't be solemn, for everybody says you and she are
great friends," she replied with a light laugh, readjusting the lace of
her bodice.

"So we are; nobody about here I think as much of as I do of your
sister. She's been mighty good 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, as was his custom, and the
sound of the cracking ice had warned him in time.

"Oh, I see, they're apple blossoms," he added carelessly as he
straightened up. "We've got a lot in our orchard. You like flowers, I
see." The even tone and perfect self-possession of the young man
reassured her.

"Oh, I adore them; don't you?" Lucy answered in a relieved, almost
apologetic voice. She was sorry she had misjudged him. She liked him
rather the better now for her mistake.

"Well, that depends. Apple blossoms never