'Not till Miss Mavis is tired of me.'
She said nothing to this and I made her walk again. For some minutes she remained silent; then, rather unexpectedly, she began: 'I've seen you talking to that lady who sits at our table—the one who has so many children.'
'Mrs. Peck? Oh yes, I have talked with her.'
'Do you know her very well?'
'Only as one knows people at sea. An acquaintance makes itself. It doesn't mean very much.'
'She doesn't speak to me—she might if she wanted.'
'That's just what she says of you—that you might speak to her.'
'Oh, if she's waiting for that———!' said my companion, with a laugh. Then she added—'She lives in our street, nearly opposite.'
'Precisely. That's the reason why she thinks you might speak; she has seen you so often and seems to know so much about you.'
'What does she know about me?'
'Ah, you must ask her—I can't tell you!'
'I don't care what she knows,' said my young lady. After a moment she went on—'She must have seen that I'm not very sociable.' And then—'What are you laughing at?'
My laughter was for an instant irrepressible—there was something so droll in the way she had said that.
'Well, you are not sociable and yet you are. Mrs. Peck is, at any rate, and thought that ought to make it easy for you to enter into conversation with her.'
