Perhaps he was thinking of that, for he smiled as he asked, "Hard or soft ?" Rose evidently had forgotten that the family of Squeers ever existed, for she answered: "Hard, please," in a voice to match.

"I'm glad to see you doing that," she added, taking courage from his composure and going as straight to her point as could be expected of a woman.
"And I am very glad to do it." "I don't mean making pens, but the romance I advised," and she touched the closely written page before him, looking as if she would like to read it.
"That is my abstract on a lecture on the circulation of the blood," he answered, kindly turning it so that she could see.

"I don't write romances I'm living one," and he glanced up with the happy, hopeful expression which always made her feel as if he was heaping coals of fire on her head.
"I wish you wouldn't look at me in that way it fidgets me," she said a little petulantly, for she had been out riding, and knew that she did not present a "spiritual" appearance after the frosty air had reddened nose as well as cheeks.
"I'll try to remember.

It does itself before I know it.

Perhaps this may mend matters." And, taking out the blue glasses he sometimes wore in the wind, he gravely put them on.
Rose could not help laughing, but his obedience only aggravated her, for she knew he could observe her all the better behind his ugly screen.
"No, it won't they are not becoming, and I don't want to look blue when I do not feel so," she said, finding it impossible to guess what he would do next or to help enjoying his peculiarities.
"But you don't to me, for in spite of the goggles everything is rose-colored now." And he pocketed the glasses without a murmur at the charming inconsistency of his idol.
"Really, Mac, I'm tired of this nonsense, it worries me and wastes your time." "Never worked harder.