But I thank you.

Come, give me your hand." She hesitated, somewhat disconcerted at Oak's old-fashioned earnest conclusion to a dialogue lightly carried on.

"Very well," she said, and gave him her hand, compressing her lips to a demure impassivity.

He held it but an instant, and in his fear of being too demonstrative, swerved to the opposite extreme, touching her fingers with the lightness of a small-hearted person.
"I am sorry," he said the instant after.
"What for ?" "Letting your hand go so quick." "You may have it again if you like; there it is." She gave him her hand again.
Oak held it longer this time--indeed, curiously long.

"How soft it is--being winter time, too--not chapped or rough or anything!" he said.
"There--that's long enough," said she, though without pulling it away.