"Terrible!" cried Phyllis, shielding her face with the hand-screen.

"And looked as cool as the ice in the pitcher, and as fresh as the
flowers which lined the walls. I thought that if I bought a glass of
you I might make my approach to your uncle an easier task. So I looked
at you and smiled, and you giggled."

"Giggled!" cried Phyllis, indignantly.

Pembroke was laughing.

"Yes, actually giggled," I went on. "I laid down a twenty-five-cent
piece, and you poured but some water which had had nothing more than a
mild flirtation with a lemon, and I gulped it down. I held out my
hand, and you said that there wasn't any change. I smiled a false
smile. Let me make a confession."

"Well?" mockingly from Phyllis.

"It was my last quarter. It was very pathetic. I had to walk four
miles down town. I did not know your uncle well enough or I should
have borrowed carfare from him."

"And I took your last penny?" said Phyllis, gently. "Why did you not
tell me then?"

"I was twenty-two and proud," said I. "Where are you going?" for she
had risen.

"I'll be back in a moment," she said, as she left the room. When she
returned she put out her hand. On the palm lay two bright American
dimes.