She started to say "No!" very decidedly; but checked herself. Then,
deliberately honest: "If," she began, "I were going to the opera, and you came in
here--after four years of not seeing you--and if I had to choose--I
don't believe I'd go to the opera. But it would be a dreadful wrench,
C. Bailey, Junior!"
"It's no wrench to me."
"Because you often go."
"Because, even if I seldom went there could be no question of choice
between the opera and Athalie Greensleeve."
"C. Bailey, Junior, you are not honest."
"Yes, I am. Why do you say so?"
"I judge by past performances," she said, her humorous eyes on him.
"Are you going to throw past performances in my face every time I come
to see you?"
"Are you coming again?"
"That isn't generous of you, Athalie--"
"I really mean it," said the girl. "Are you?"
"Coming here? Of course I am if you'll let me!"
The last time he had said, "If you want me." Now it was modified to
"If you'll let me,"--a development and a new footing to which
neither were yet accustomed, perhaps not even conscious of.
"C. Bailey, Junior, do you want to come?"
"I do indeed. It is so bully of you to be nice to me
after--everything. And it's so jolly to talk over--things--with you."
She leaned forward in her chair, her pretty hands joined between her
knees.
"Please," she said, "don't say you'll come if you are not coming."
"But I am--"
"I know you said so twice before.... I don't mean to be horrid or to
reproach you, but--I am going to tell you--I was disappointed--even
a--a little--unhappy. And it--lasted--some time.... So, if you are not
coming, tell me so now.... It is hard to wait--too long."
"Athalie," he said, completely surprised by the girl's frank avowal
and by the unsuspected emotion in himself which was responding, "I
am--I had no idea--I don't deserve your kindness to me--your
loyalty--I'm a--I'm a--a pup! That's what I am--an undeserving,
ungrateful, irresponsible, and asinine pup! That's what all boys in
college are--but it's no excuse for not keeping my word--for making
you unhappy--"
"C. Bailey, Junior, you were just a boy. And I was a child.... I am
still, in spite of my nineteen years--nearly twenty at that--not much
different, not enough changed to know that I'm a woman. I feel exactly
as I did toward you--not grown up,--or that you have grown up.... Only
I know, somehow, I'd have a harder time of it now, if you tell me
you'll come, and then--"