Fanny looked at him without smiling, since there was nothing to smile at, and then poured out his tea. He took it in silence, but helped himself to more sugar, with a reproachful air. 

 "Oh—you like it sweet, do you?" said Fanny, interrogatively. 

 "Peculiarity of spoilt babies," answered Lawrence, in bitter tones. 

 "Yes, I see it is." 

 And with this crushing retort Fanny Trehearne relapsed into silence. Lawrence began to drink his tea, burnt his mouth with courageous indifference, stirred up the sugar gravely, and said nothing. 

 "I wonder when they'll get home," said Fanny, after a long interval. 

 "Are you anxious about them?" enquired the young man, with affected politeness. 

 "Anxious? No! I was only wondering." 

 "I'm not very amusing, I know," said Lawrence, grimly. 

 "No, you're not." 

 The blood rushed to his face again with his sudden irritation, and he drank more hot tea to keep himself in countenance. At that moment he sincerely wished that he had not come to Bar Harbour at all. 

 "You're not particularly encouraging, Miss Trehearne," he said presently. "I'm sure, I'm doing my best to be agreeable." 

 "And you think that I'm doing my best to be disagreeable? I'm not, you know. It's your imagination." 

 "I don't know," answered Lawrence, his face unbending a little.  "You began by telling me that you despised me because I'm such a duffer at out-of-door things, then you told me I was a spoilt baby, and now you're proving to me that I'm a bore." 

 "Duffer, baby, and bore!" Fanny laughed.  "What an appalling combination!" 

 "It is, indeed. But that's what you said—" 

 "Oh, nonsense! I wasn't as rude as that, was I? But I never said anything of the sort, you know." 

 "You really did say that I was a spoilt baby—" 

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