This was even more than she had hoped for. An unfamiliar bashfulness made
her look away from the gray eyes and stammer in rough deprecation:

"Oh, cut it out!"

"I never cut out the truth. But I'm going to cut out myself. It's time
for me to be moving on. Good-by."

His hand was extended and she put hers into it, feeling the light
pressure of his cool, dry fingers. She did not know what to say, wanted
to ask him to come again, but feared, in her new self-consciousness, it
wasn't the stylish thing to do.

"I'm real glad you called," was the nearest she dared.

He was at the door and turned, hopefully smiling.

"Are you?"

"Sure," she murmured.

"Then why don't you ask me to come again?"

"I thought that was up to you."

He again was unable to decide whether her coyness was an expression of
embarrassment or an accomplished artfulness, but he inclined to the
latter opinion.