“I think it’s a kind of light brown,” answered Theron, with an effect of exerting his memory.

“It seems that you only take notice of hair in stained-glass windows,” was Celia’s comment.

“Oh-h!” he murmured reproachfully, “as if—­as if—­but I won’t say what I was going to.”

“That’s not fair!” she said.  The little touch of whimsical mockery which she gave to the serious declaration was delicious to him.  “You have me at such a disadvantage!  Here am I rattling out whatever comes into my head, exposing all my lightest emotions, and laying bare my very heart in candor, and you meditate, you turn things over cautiously in your mind, like a second Machiavelli.  I grow afraid of you; you are so subtle and mysterious in your reserves.”

Theron gave a tug at the ribbon, to show the joy he had in her delicate chaff.  “No, it is you who are secretive,” he said.  “You never told me about—­about the piano.”

The word was out!  A minute before it had seemed incredible to him that he should ever have the courage to utter it—­but here it was.  He laid firm hold upon the ribbon, which it appeared hung from her waist, and drew himself a trifle nearer to her.  “I could never have consented to take it, I’m afraid,” he went on in a low voice, “if I had known.  And even as it is, I fear it won’t be possible.”

“What are you afraid of?” asked Celia.  “Why shouldn’t you take it?  People in your profession never do get anything unless it’s given to them, do they?  I’ve always understood it was like that.  I’ve often read of donation parties—­that’s what they’re called, isn’t it?—­where everybody is supposed to bring some gift to the minister.  Very well, then, I’ve simply had a donation party of my own, that’s all.  Unless you mean that my being a Catholic makes a difference.  I had supposed you were quite free from that kind of prejudice.”

“So I am!  Believe me, I am!” urged Theron.  “When I’m with you, it seems impossible to realize that there are people so narrow and contracted in their natures as to take account of such things.  It is another atmosphere that I breathe near you.  How could you imagine that such a thought—­about our difference of creed—­would enter my head?  In fact,” he concluded with a nervous half-laugh, “there isn’t any such difference.  Whatever your religion is, it’s mine too.  You remember—­you adopted me as a Greek.”

“Did I?” she rejoined.  “Well, if that’s the case, it leaves you without a leg to stand on.  I challenge you to find any instance where a Greek made any difficulties about accepting a piano from a friend.  But seriously—­while we are talking about it—­you introduced the subject:  I didn’t—­I might as well explain to you that I had no such intention, when I picked the instrument out.  It was later, when I was talking to Thurston’s people about the price, that the whim seized me.  Now it is the one fixed rule of my life to obey my whims.