t me."

"You were not the cause."

"Yes, you were helping me with my work."

"It was my work, too." He tilted a pile of newspapers off a chair,
sat down and said: "I feel at home with you."

"Oh, am I so homely?" she asked, smiling.

"Yes, restoring the word to its best meaning. By the way, you haven't
cut off your hair."

"No, I forgot it, but I'm going to."

"My sister Ellen has hair something like yours, but not so heavy and
not so bright."

"I should like to see her."

"Because she has hair like yours?"

"What a question! No, because I am acquainted with her brother, of
course."

"And when you become acquainted with a man do you want to meet his
sister?"

"Oh, you are getting to be a regular tease, Mr. Witherspoon. After
awhile I shall be afraid to talk to you."

"I hope the clock will refuse to record that time. You say that you
would like to see my sister. You shall see her; you must come home to
dinner with me."

She gave him a quick look, a mere glance, the shortest sentence within
the range of human expression, but in that short sentence a full book
of meaning. One moment she was nothing but a resentment; but when she
looked up again the light in her eyes had been softened by that
half-sarcastic pity which a well-bred woman feels for the ignorance of
man.

"Your sister has not called on me," she said.

He replied: "I beg your pardon for overlooking the ceremonious
flirtation which women insist shall be indulged in, for I assure you
that their ways are sometimes a mystery to me; but I admit that the
commonest sort of sense should have kept me from falling into this
error. My sister shall call on you."

"Pardon me, but she must not."

"And may I ask why not?"

"My aunt lives in a flat," she answered.

"Suppose she does? What difference can that make?"

"It makes this difference: Your sister couldn't conceal the air of a
patron, and I couldn't hide my resentment; therefore," she added with
a smile that brought back all her brightness, "to be friends we must
remain strangers."

"But suppose I should call on you; would you regard it as a
patronage?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because you are a man."

"You women are peculiar creatures."

"An old idea always patly expressed," she replied.

"But isn't it true?"

"It must be, or it wouldn't have lived so long," she answered.

"A pleasing sentiment," he replied, "but old age is not a mark of
truth, for nothing is grayer than falseho