"I thought you might like these things," he awkwardly continued.
"Like them?
I'd love them!" said Mary, her eyes sparkling.
"I brought them for you." They were both silent for a time, looking at the souvenirs, but presently their glances met and they smiled at each other.
"Of course you're going back to the factory," she said; and when he hesitated she continued, "I shall rely on you to let me know how things are going on." Again he coloured a little beneath his bronze and Mary found herself watching it with an indefinable feeling of satisfaction.

And after he was gone and she was carrying the souvenirs to the den, she also found herself singing a few broken bars from the Blue Danube.
"Is that you singing!" shouted Helen from the library.
"Trying to." Helen came hurrying as though to see a miracle, for Mary couldn't sing.
"Oh--oh!" she said, her eyes falling on the helmet.

"Who sent it?
Wally Cabot ?" "No; Archey Forbes brought it." "Oh-ho!" said Helen again.

"Now I see-ee-ee!" But if she did, she saw more than Mary.
"Perhaps she thinks I'm in love with him," she thought, and though the reflection brought a pleasant sense of disturbance with it, it wasn't long before she was shaking her head.
"I don't know what it is," she decided at last, "but I'm sure I'm not in love with him." As nearly as I can express it, Mary was in love with love, and could no more help it than she could help the crease in her chin or the dreaminess of her eyes.

If Archey had had the field to himself, her heart might soon have turned to him as unconsciously and innocently as a flower turns its petals to the sun.