“I meant—­I thought you would like to be treated frankly.”

“And you would n’t treat everybody so?”

“I wouldn’t treat Mrs. Maynard so.”

“Oh!” she said.  “You treat me upon a theory.”

“Don’t you like that?  We treat everybody upon a theory”—­

“Yes, I know”

“And I should tell you the worst of anything at once, because I think you are one of the kind that don’t like to have their conclusions made for them.”

“And you would really let women make their own conclusions,” she said.  “You are very peculiar!” She waited a while, and then she asked, “And what is your theory of me?”

“That you are very peculiar.”

“How?”

“You are proud.”

“And is pride so very peculiar?”

“Yes; in women.”

“Indeed!  You set up for a connoisseur of female character.  That’s very common, nowadays.  Why don’t you tell me something more about Yourself?  We’re always talking about me.”

He might well have been doubtful of her humor.  He seemed to decide that she was jesting, for he answered lightly, “Why, you began it.”

“I know I did, this time.  But now I wish to stop it, too.”

He looked down at the tiller in his hands.  “Well,” he said, “I should like to tell you about myself.  I should like to know what you think of the kind of man I am.  Will you be honest if I will?”

“That’s a very strange condition,” she answered, meeting and then avoiding the gaze he lifted to her face.

“What?  Being honest?”

“Well, no—­Or, yes!”

“It is n’t for you.”

“Thank you.  But I’m not under discussion now.”

“Well, in the first place,” he began, “I was afraid of you when we met.”

“Afraid of me?”

“That is n’t the word, perhaps.  We’ll say ashamed of myself.  Mrs. Maynard told me about you, and I thought you would despise me for not doing or being anything in particular.  I thought you must.”

“Indeed!”

He hesitated, as if still uncertain of her mood from this intonation, and then he went on:  “But I had some little hope you would tolerate me, after all.  You looked like a friend I used to have.—­Do you mind my telling you?”

“Oh, no.  Though I can’t say that it’s ever very comfortable to be told that you look like some one else.”

“I don’t suppose any one else would have been struck by the resemblance,” said Libby, with a laugh of reminiscence.  “He was huge.  But he had eyes like a girl,—­I beg your pardon,—­like yours.”

“You mean that I have eyes like a man.”

He laughed, and said, “No,” and then turned grave.  “As long as he lived”—­

“Oh, is he dead?” she asked more gently than she had yet spoken.

“Yes, he died just before I went abroad.  I went out on business for my father,—­he’s an importer and jobber,—­and bought goods for him.  Do you despise business?”