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“Sure?” inquired he jestingly. “You see, I’m not used to young girls—American girls. You talk so freely. If I weren’t an American I’d misunderstand.”

“What would it matter if you did?” retorted she.

“To be sure—it wouldn’t matter at all,” he admitted. “Do go on.”

“If it weren’t that my knowing you—this way—would always seem unreal—not at all a part of life—I’d not dare come. Now, don’t misunderstand. That doesn’t mean I’m falling in love with you—at least, I don’t think it does.” Dreamily—“No, I don’t think so.”

“Depressing,” said he, with an awkward attempt at humor. He did not like these frank personalities from his model—these alarming skirtings of the subject he wished to discuss or consider with no woman. It was interesting, refreshingly interesting, this unheard-of, direct way of dealing with a matter invariably ignored by an unmarried, marriageable girl—that is, so far as his experience went, it was ignored—but, perhaps, in the America growing up during his absence—yes, this interesting audacity was disquieting.