did want it, and that would have been all there was to it; but here’s what Bibbs says, and I heard him with my own ears.  ’What time do I want the car?’ he says.  ‘Well, now, that depends—­that depends,’ he says.  He talks slow like that, you know.  ’I’ll tell you what time I want the car, George,’ he says, ’if you’ll tell me what you think of this statue!’ That’s exactly his words!  Asked the darky what he thought of that Arab Edith and mother bought for the hall!”

Mary pondered upon this.  “He might have been in fun, perhaps,” she suggested.

“Askin’ a darky what he thought of a piece of statuary—­of a work of art!  Where on earth would be the fun of that?  No, you’re just kind-hearted—­and that’s the way you ought to be, of course—­”

“Thank you, Mr. Sheridan!” she laughed.

“See here!” he cried.  “Isn’t there any way for us to get over this Mister and Miss thing?  A month’s got thirty-one days in it; I’ve managed to be with you a part of pretty near all the thirty-one, and I think you know how I feel by this time—­”

She looked panic-stricken immediately.  “Oh, no,” she protested, quickly.  “No, I don’t, and—­”

“Yes, you do,” he said, and his voice shook a little.  “You couldn’t help knowing.”

“But I do!” she denied, hurriedly.  “I do help knowing.  I mean—­Oh, wait!”

“What for?  You do know how I feel, and you—­well, you’ve certainly wanted me to feel that way—­or else pretended—­”

“Now, now!” she lamented.  “You’re spoiling such a cheerful afternoon!”

“‘Spoilin’ it!’” He slowed down the car and turned his face to her squarely.  “See here, Miss Vertrees, haven’t you—­”

“Stop!  Stop the car a minute.”  And when he had complied she faced him as squarely as he evidently desired her to face him.  “Listen.  I don’t want you to go on, to-day.”

“Why not?” he asked, sharply.

“I don’t know.”

“You mean it’s just a whim?”

“I don’t know,” she repeated.  Her voice was low and troubled and honest, and she kept her clear eyes upon his.

“Will you tell me something?”

“Almost anything.”

“Have you ever told any man you loved him?”

And at that, though she laughed, she looked a little contemptuous.  “No,” she said.  “And I don’t think I ever shall tell any man that —­or ever know what it means.  I’m in earnest, Mr. Sheridan.”

“Then you—­you’ve just been flirting with me!” Poor Jim looked both furious and crestfallen.

“Not one bit!” she cried.  “Not one word!  Not one syllable!  I’ve meant every single thing!”

“I don’t—­”

“Of course you don’t!” she said.  “Now, Mr. Sheridan, I want you to start the car.  Now!  Thank you.  Slowly, till I finish what I have to say.  I have not flirted with you.  I have deliberately courted you.  One thing more, and then I want you to take me straight home, talking about the weather all the way.  I said that I do not believe I shall ever ‘care’ for any man, and that is true.  I doubt the existence of the kind of ‘caring’ we hear about in poems and plays and novels.  I think it must be just a kind of emotional talk—­most of it.  At all events, I don’t feel it.  Now, we can go faster, please.”