taken—and I see I am,—I will—yes, I will—" Here I became involved, and forgot how I was intending to finish, so I wound up rather feebly—"do as you say."
He took a long, lingering look at my angry form. I could hardly believe my own eyes when I saw laughter in his! Was he laughing at me or himself? A smile quivered on his lips, and there was hearty amusement in the gray eyes. My wrath was rapidly cooling; but I strove to retire from the field with dignity.
"I see nothing to laugh at," I said, in a superior manner.
"Neither do I," he responded, "except that I behave so like a child, and you are so easily excited. Now, most women would have been flattered at what I said. You, on the contrary, became a small virago, for the moment."
"I am not like most women, if most women are flattered to have their proffered friendship thrust back so unceremoniously. I don't understand such flattery, and I prefer to have no more of it."
"Do you know," he said, looking down on me intently, "that you have a violent temper, Dorris?"
My eyes sought his with a questioning look, and found there such an expression of tenderness that they fell to the carpet again.
"Yes—no," I answered, leaning on the back of a chair near me; then, with a flash of defiance, taking in for the first time the full sense of his question, "I think even a saint would be angry at what you said. Why do you call me Dorris?" (with renewed dignity.)
