"How do you do?" said he, stretching out his hand. I put mine
in it.
"What has become of my friend, this seven years?"
"I am here —" I said.
"I see you. But why have I not _seen_ you, all this while?"
"I supposed you had been busy," I answered.
"Busy! Of course I have, or I should have been here asking
questions. I was not too busy to dance with you; and I was
promised — how many dances? Where have you been?"
"I have been at home."
"Why?"
Would Mr. Thorold understand me? Mrs. Sandford did not. My own
mother never did. I hesitated, and he repeated his question,
and those hazel eyes were sparkling all sorts of queries
around me.
"I have given up going to the hops," I said.
"Given up? Do you mean, you _don't_ mean, that you are never
coming any more?"
"I am not coming any more."
"Don't you sometimes change your decisions?"
"I suppose I do," I answered; "but not this one."
"I am in a great puzzle," he said. "And very sorry. Aren't you
going to be so good as to give me some clue to this mystery?
Did you find the hops so dull?"
And he looked very serious indeed.
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