"See here!" he cried. "Isn't there any way for us to get over this
Mister and Miss thing? A month's got thirty-one days in it; I've
managed to be with you a part of pretty near all the thirty-one, and
I think you know how I feel by this time--"
She looked panic-stricken immediately. "Oh, no," she protested,
quickly. "No, I don't, and--"
"Yes, you do," he said, and his voice shook a little. "You couldn't
help knowing."
"But I do!" she denied, hurriedly. "I do help knowing. I mean--Oh,
wait!"
"What for? You do know how I feel, and you--well, you've certainly
WANTED me to feel that way--or else pretended--"
"Now, now!" she lamented. "You're spoiling such a cheerful
afternoon!"
"'Spoilin' it!'" He slowed down the car and turned his face to her
squarely. "See here, Miss Vertrees, haven't you--"
"Stop! Stop the car a minute." And when he had complied she faced
him as squarely as he evidently desired her to face him. "Listen.
I don't want you to go on, to-day."
"Why not?" he asked, sharply.
"I don't know."
"You mean it's just a whim?"
"I don't know," she repeated. Her voice was low and troubled and
honest, and she kept her clear eyes upon his.
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