She made no reply; but continued to toy with the lace of her handkerchief.
"Rain-Girl," he said quietly, "you have been a ripping pal, I" he broke off as she looked up. There were tears in her eyes.
"I wish you wouldn't talk like that," she said in a low voice, none too well under control.
"Like what?"
"About—about Oh, I'm ridiculous!" making a vicious little dab with her handkerchief at a tear that toppled over the brim, and ran down the side of her nose. "You know what I mean," she said accusingly a moment later.
"Do I?" he asked calmly.
"Yes, now, don't you? Oh, please, please try and be different." There was eager pleading in her voice.
"There's the leopard and his spots," he suggested smiling.
"Please be serious, Mr. Beresford."
The use of his name seemed to bring him back from the shadowed pathway of his thoughts.
"I can't be serious if you are formal and call me 'Mr. Beresford' in that reproachful way." His eyes challenged, "It makes me feel like the Fortieth Article."
She laughed.
"I would sooner fall back into the nameless void of the last eight days than be 'Mr. Beresford' on the ninth."
