"No; it isn't."
"You _could_ write in a way all your own. Have you ever written anything
for publication?"
"No. That is--well--I don't really know." He told her about Gardner and
the description of the wreck.
"How did you happen to do that?" she asked curiously.
"Oh, I write a lot of things and put them away and forget them."
"Show me," she wheedled. "I'd love to see them."
He shook his head. "They wouldn't interest you." The words were those of
an excuse. But in the tone was finality.
"I don't think you're very responsive," she complained. "I'm awfully
interested in you and your affairs, and you won't play back the least
bit."
They walked on in silence for a space. He had, she reflected, a most
disconcerting trick of silence, of ignoring quite without embarrassment
leads, which in her code imperatively called for return. Annoyance
stirred within her, and the eternal feline which is a component part of
the eternal feminine asserted itself.
"Perhaps," she suggested, "you are afraid of me."
"No; I'm not."
"By that you mean 'Why should I be'?"
"Something of the sort."
"Didn't Miss Van Arsdale warn you against me?"
"How did you know that?" he asked, staring.
"A solemn warning not to fall in love with me?" pursued the girl calmly.
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