"Oh dear, I do like you!" cried Francie; "but how will that help you?"
"It will help me if you will understand that I love you."
"Well, I won't understand!" replied the girl, walking off.
He followed her; they went on together in silence and then he said—"Do you mean to say you haven't found that out?"
"Oh, I don't find things out—I ain't an editor!" Francie laughed.
"You draw me out and then you jibe at me," Mr. Flack remarked.
"I didn't draw you out. Couldn't you see me just straining to get away?"
"Don't you sympathise with my ideas?"
"Of course I do, Mr. Flack; I think they're splendid," said Francie, who did not in the least understand them.
"Well, then, why won't you work with me? Your affection, your brightness, your faith would be everything to me."
"I'm very sorry—but I can't—I can't," the girl declared.
"You could if you would, quick enough."
"Well, then, I won't!" And as soon as these words were spoken, as if to mitigate something of their asperity, Francie paused a moment and said: "You must remember that I never said I would—nor anything like it. I
