But she answered, quite gently, now: "No, Mr. Kendrick, I don't trample
on that. No girl would. I simply--know you are mistaken."
"In what? My own feeling? Do you think I don't know--"
"I _know_ you don't know. I'm not your kind of a girl, Mr. Kendrick. You
think I am, because--well, perhaps because my eyes are blue and my
eyelashes black; just such things as that do mislead people. I can dance
fairly well--"
He smothered an angry exclamation.
"And skate well--and play the 'cello a little--and--that's nearly all
you know about me. You don't even know whether I can teach well--or talk
well--or what is stored away in my mind. And I know just as little about
you."
"I've learned one thing about you in this last minute," he muttered.
"You can keep your head."
"Why not?" There was a note of laughter in her voice. "There needs to be
one who keeps her head when the other loses his--all because of a little
winter moonlight. What would the summer moonlight do to you, I wonder?"
"Roberta Gray"--his voice was rough--"the moonlight does it no more than
the sunlight. Whatever you think, I'm not that kind of fellow.
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