“Why?” Lucy asked, pleased at his attentions and thanking him with a more direct look.

“Oh, I don’t know.  You’re more jolly, I think.  I don’t like girls who turn out to be solemn after you know them a while; I was afraid you might.  You know it’s a long time since I saw you.”

“Why, then, sister can’t be solemn, for everybody says you and she are great friends,” she replied with a light laugh, readjusting the lace of her bodice.

“So we are; nobody about here I think as much of as I do of your sister.  She’s been mighty good to me.  But you know what I mean:  I mean those don’t-touch-me kind of girls who are always thinking you mean a lot of things when you’re only trying to be nice and friendly to them.  I like to be a brother to a girl and to go sailing with her, and fishing, and not have her bother me about her feet getting a little bit wet, and not scream bloody murder when the boat gives a lurch.  That’s the kind of girl that’s worth having.”

“And you don’t find them?” laughed Lucy, looking at him out of the corners of her eyes.

“Well, not many.  Do you mind little things like that?”

As he spoke his eyes wandered over her bare shoulders until they rested on the blossoms, the sort of roaming, critical eyes that often cause a woman to wonder whether some part of her toilet has not been carelessly put together.  Then he added, with a sudden lowering of his voice:  “That’s a nice posy you’ve got.  Who sent it?” and he bent his head as if to smell the cluster on her bosom.

Lucy drew back and a slight flush suffused her cheek; his audacity frightened her.  She was fond of admiration, but this way of expressing it was new to her.  The young man caught the movement and recovered himself.  He had ventured on a thin spot, as was his custom, and the sound of the cracking ice had warned him in time.

“Oh, I see, they’re apple blossoms,” he added carelessly as he straightened up.  “We’ve got a lot in our orchard.  You like flowers, I see.”  The even tone and perfect self-possession of the young man reassured her.

“Oh, I adore them; don’t you?” Lucy answered in a relieved, almost apologetic voice.  She was sorry she had misjudged him.  She liked him rather the better now for her mistake.

“Well, that depends.  Apple blossoms never looked pretty to me before; but then it makes a good deal of difference where they are,” answered Bart with a low chuckle.

Jane had been watching the two and had noticed.  Bart’s position and manner.  His easy familiarity of pose offended her.  Instinctively she glanced about the room, wondering if any of her guests had seen it.  That Lucy did not resent it surprised her.  She supposed her sister’s recent training would have made her a little more fastidious.

“Come, Lucy,” she called gently, moving toward her, “bring Bart over here and join the other girls.”

“All right, Miss Jane, we’ll be there in a minute,” Bart answered in Lucy’s stead.  Then he bent his head and said in a low voice: