And in the second place,
she's not meant to be funny; it isn't right to laugh at really
splendid people who take themselves seriously. In the third
place, you won't come again if I do."
"Don't be sure of that," Russell said, "whatever you do."
"'Whatever I do?'" she echoed. "That sounds as if you thought I
COULD be terrific! Be careful; there's one thing I could do that
would keep you away."
"What's that?"
"I could tell you not to come," she said. "I wonder if I ought
to."
"Why do you wonder if you 'ought to?'"
"Don't you guess?"
"No."
"Then let's both be mysteries to each other," she suggested. "I
mystify you because I wonder, and you mystify me because you
don't guess why I wonder. We'll let it go at that, shall we?"
"Very well; so long as it's certain that you DON'T tell me not to
come again."
"I'll not tell you that--yet," she said. "In fact----" She
paused, reflecting, with her head to one side. "In fact, I won't
tell you not to come, probably, until I see that's what you want
me to tell you. I'll let you out easily--and I'll be sure to see
it. Even before you do, perhaps."
"That arrangement suits me," Russell returned, and his voice held
no trace of jocularity: he had become serious. "It suits me
better if you're enough in earnest to mean that I can come--oh,
not whenever I want to; I don't expect so much!--but if you mean
that I can see you pretty often.
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