She shook her head.
"Then why do you ask me to kiss you?"
"Because of what you said about father."
He laughed and kissed her. And then she, too, laughed. He said, "Not for
my own sake--not a little bit?"
"Oh, yes," she cried, "when you kiss me that way. I like to be kissed. I
am very affectionate."
He laughed again. "You _are_ a queer one. If it's a game, it's a good one.
Is it a game?"
"I don't know," said she gayly. "Good night. This is dreadfully late for
me."
"Good night," he said, and they shook hands. "Do you like me better--or
less?"
"Better," was her prompt, apparently honest reply.
"Curiously enough, I'm beginning to _like_ you," said he. "Now don't ask
me what I mean by that. If you don't know already, you'll not find out
from me."
"Oh, but I do know," cried she. "The way you kissed me--that was one
thing. The way you feel toward me now--that's a different thing. Isn't
it so?"
"Exactly. I see we are going to get on."
"Yes, indeed."
They shook hands again in friendliest fashion, and she opened the front
door for him. And her farewell smile was bright and happy.