He stretched out both his hands in greeting and tenderness.

"Guida--sweetheart!" he said.
She laughed up at him mischievously, and put her hands behind her back.
"Ma fe, you are so very forward," she said, seating herself on the bench.

"And you must not call me Guida, and you've no right to call me sweetheart." "I know I've no right to call you anything, but to myself I always call you Guida, and sweetheart too, and I've liked to think that you would care to know my thoughts," he answered.
"Yes, I wish I knew your thoughts," she responded, looking up at him intently; "I should like to know every thought in your mind....

Do you know--you don't mind my saying just what I think ?--I find myself feeling that there's something in you that I never touch; I mean, that a friend ought to touch, if it's a real friendship.

You appear to be so frank, and I know you are frank and good and true, and yet I seem always to be hunting for something in your mind, and it slips away from me always--always.