“You aren’t very complimentary,” she pouted. “But there! I dare say I knocked your thoughts all to bits.” “No; not at all. Certainly, I mean. It doesn’t matter. See here,” he said, with an injured sharpness of inquiry born of his own exasperation at his verbal fumbling, “you said you wouldn’t, and here you are. I ask you, is that fair and honorable?” “Well, if it comes to that,” she countered, “you promised that you’d never speak to me if you saw me, and here you are telling me that you don’t want me around the place at all. It’s very rude and inhospitable, I consider.” “I can’t help it,” he said miserably. “I’m afraid.” “You don’t look it. You look disagreeable.” “As long as you stayed where you belonged—Excuse me—I don’t mean to be impolite—but I—I—You see—as long as you were just a voice, I could manage all right, but now that you are—er—er—you—” His speech trailed off lamentably into meaningless stutterings. The girl turned amazed and amused eyes upon him. “What on earth ails the poor man?” she inquired of all creation. “I told you. I—I’m shy.” “Not really! I thought it was a joke.” “Qu’est-ce qu’il dit? Qu’est-ce qu’il dit?” demanded the yellow-breasted inquisitor, from his flowery perch. “What does he say? He says he’s shy. Poor poo—er young, helpless thing!” And her laughter put to shame a palm thrush who was giving what he had up to that moment considered a highly creditable musical performance. “All right!” he retorted warmly. “Laugh if you want to! But after stipulating that we should be strangers, to—to act this way—well, I think it’s—it’s—forward. That’s what I think it is.” “Do you, indeed? Perhaps you think it’s pleasant for me, after I’ve opened my heart to a stranger, to have him forced on me as an acquaintance!” From the depths of those limpid eyes welled up a little film of vexation. “O Lord! Don’t do that!” he implored. “I didn’t mean—I’m a bear—a pig—a—a—a scarab—I’m anything you choose. Only don’t do that!” “I’m not doing anything.”
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