The Literary Sense. E. Nesbit

said, smiling hurriedly at him.

      He did not smile. He said: "I want you to tell me why you were so angel-good—why did you let me stay? Why did you lay the pretty table for two?"

      "Because we've never been in the same mood at the same time," she said desperately; "and somehow I thought we should be this evening."

      "What mood?" he asked inexorably.

      "Why—jolly—cheerful," she said, with the slightest possible hesitation.

      "I see."

      There was another silence. Then she said in a voice that fluttered a little—

      "My old governess, Miss Pettingill—you remember old Pet? Well, she's coming by the train that gets in at three. I wired to her from town. She ought to be here by now—"

      "Ought she?" he cried, pushing back his chair and coming towards her—"ought she? Then, by heaven! before she comes I'm going to tell you something—"

      "No, don't!" she cried. "You'll spoil everything. Go and sit down again. You shall! I insist! Let me tell you! I always swore I would some day!"

      "Why?" said he, and sat down.

      "Because I knew you'd never make up your mind to tell me—"

      "To tell you what?"

      "Anything—for fear you should have to say it in the same way someone else had said it before!"

      "Said what?"

      "Anything! Sit still! Now I'm going to tell you."

      She came slowly round the table and knelt on one knee beside him, her elbows on the arm of his chair.

      "You've never had the courage to make up your mind to anything," she began.

      "Is that what you were going to tell me?" he asked, and looked in her eyes till she dropped their lids.

      "No—yes—no! I haven't anything to tell you really. Good night."

      "Aren't you going to tell me?"

      "There isn't anything to tell," she said.

      "Then I'll tell you," said he.

      She started up, and the little brass knocker's urgent summons resounded through the bungalow.

      "Here she is!" she cried.

      He also sprang to his feet.

      "And we haven't told each other anything!" he said.

      "Haven't we? Ah, no—don't! Let me go! There—she's knocking again. You must let me go!"

      He let her slip through his arms.

      At the door she paused to flash a soft, queer smile at him.

      "It was I who told you, after all!" she said. "Aren't you glad? Because that wasn't a bit literary."

      "You didn't. I told you," he retorted.

      "Not you!" she said scornfully. "That would have been too obvious."