The second possibility was only a shade less appalling
than the first.
"The trouble is," she went on very confidentially, "I am not interested
in anything in the world but my art."
"Oh, come now, Miss Eleanor!" Quin rallied her. "You know you were
interested in the work out at the camp."
"That's true. I except that."
"And you can't say you haven't been interested in our selling this farm,
and getting Mr. and Mrs. Ranny fixed up, and all that."
"Of course I've been interested in that; it's been no end of fun."
"And then," Quin pursued his point quite brazenly, "there's me. I hope
you are a little bit interested in me?"
She tried to take it lightly. "Interested in you? Why, of course I am. We
all are. Uncle Ranny was saying only this morning----"
"I don't care a hang what he said. It's _you_ I'm talking about. Do you
like me any better than you did in the spring?"
"You silly boy, I've always liked you."
"But I told you I wanted a lot. Have I made any headway?"
"Headway? I should say you have. I never saw such improvement! If the
university classes have done this much for you in four months, what will
you be by the end of the year?"
"That's right," said Quin bitterly.
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