"No matter." His eyes were on hers.

"But it does matter. Willie's cake will be spoiled."

She tried vainly to draw away from the grip that imprisoned her.

"Please let me go."

He bent across the table until he could almost feel the blood beating in her cheeks.

"Say it once more," he pleaded.

Again her hand fluttered in his strong grasp.

"Please!"

"Please what?" persisted Robert Morton.

"Please--please--Bob," she murmured.

He was at the other side of the table now, but she was no longer there.

Instead she stood at the screen door, shaking the flour from her ap.r.o.n.

"Don't move!" she cried severely. "You've walked all through that flour and are tracking it about every step you take. Look at the pantry! I shall have to sweep it all up."

"I'll do it," he answered with instant penitence.

"No. You sit right down there in that chair and don't you stir. I will go and get the dustpan and brush."

"I'm awfully sorry," called Bob, plunged into the depths of despair.

"I didn't realize that when you turned the handle of the darn thing the stuff went through."

"What did you think a flour-sifter was for?" asked she, dimpling.

"I wasn't thinking of flour-sifters," declared he significantly.

He saw her blush.

"Mayn't I please get up?"

"No. Not until your shoes are brushed off," she replied provokingly.

"Let me take the brush then."

"Don't you see I am using it?"

"You could let me take it a second."

"I have been taught to complete one task before I began another," was the tantalizing reply, as she went on with her sweeping.

"The deuce!"

"You must not swear in my presence," she commanded, attempting to conceal a smile.

"Then stop dimpling that dimple."

"Don't you like dimples?" inquired she demurely. "Now Billy Farwell thinks that my dimples--"

"Hang Billy Farwell!"

"How rude of you! Billy never consigns you to such a fate." She waited, then added, "All he ever says is '_Confound Morton_.'"

"I thought he had more spirit," was the ungrateful rejoinder.

"Oh, he has spirit enough," she explained. "He would say much more if he were allowed."

She saw Robert start forward.

"Of course," she went on in an even tone, "I shouldn't permit him to abuse a friend of Willie's."

"Oh, that's the reason you put the check on him, is it?"

"Aren't you Willie's friend?" she questioned evasively.

"Yes, but--"

"You don't seem to appreciate your luck. Now I adore Willie and believe that any one who has his friendship is the most fortunate person in the world."

He saw a grave and tender light creep into her wonderful eyes.

"I'm not arguing about Willie," said he. "You know how much I care for him. But I can't think of him now. It's you I'm thinking of--you--you."

She did not answer but bent her head lower over her sweeping.

"I don't believe there is any flour on my shoes, any way," grumbled the culprit presently, stooping to examine his feet with the air of a guilty child. He thought he heard her laugh.

"How much longer are you going to keep me in this infernal chair?" he fumed.

"Bob!" called a voice from upstairs.

"It's your aunt; she must have heard you come in."

He sprang up only to come into collision with the dustpan full of flour which lay near his chair. A second more and the fruits of the sweeping drifted broadcast in a powdery cloud.

"Delight! Dearest!" he cried, bending over the kneeling figure.

"You must go upstairs and see your aunt--please!" she begged. "She will think it so strange."

"All right, sweetheart. I'm coming, Aunt Tiny."