“By filling it with other distractions, I suppose you mean,” I answered.  “A fickle-minded person you must think me.  But it pleases me so much to have you take an interest in me that I do not resent any of your advice.”

She laughed.  “I like to give advice,” she said, “but I must admit that I sometimes think better of a person if he does not take it.  But I will say—­and this is all the advice I am going to give you at present—­that if you want to be successful in making love, you must change your methods.  You cannot expect to step up in front of a girl and stop her short as if she were a runaway horse.  A horse doesn’t like that sort of thing, and a girl doesn’t like it.  You must take more time about it.  A runaway girl doesn’t hurt anybody, and, if you are active enough, you can jump in behind and take the reins and stop her gradually without hurting her feelings, and then, most likely, you can drive her for all the rest of your life.”

“You ought to have that speech engraved in uncial characters on a slab of stone,” said I.  “Any museum would be glad to have it.”

I had two reasons besides the one I gave for wishing to leave this hospitable house.  In the first place, Edith Larramie troubled me.  I did not like to have any one know so much about my mental interior—­or to think she knew so much.  I did not like to feel that I was being managed.  I had a strong belief that if anybody jumped into a vehicle she was pulling he would find that she was doing her own driving and would allow no interferences.  I liked her very much, but I was sure that away from her I would feel freer in mind.

The other reason for my leaving was Amy Willoughby.  During my little visit to her house my acquaintance with her had grown with great rapidity.  Now I seemed to know her very well, and the more I knew her the better I liked her.  It may be vanity, but I think she wanted me to like her, and one reason for believing this was the fact that when she was with me—­and I saw a great deal of her during the afternoon and evening I spent with the Larramies—­she did not talk so much, and when she did speak she invariably said something I wanted to hear.

Remembering the remarks which had been made about her by her friend Edith, I could not but admit that she was a very fine girl, combining a great many attractive qualities, but I rebelled against every conviction I had in regard to her.  I did not want to think about her admirable qualities.  I did not want to believe that in time they would impress me more forcibly than they did now.  I did not want people to imagine that I would come to be so impressed.  If I stayed there I might almost look upon her in the light of a duty.

The family farewell the next morning was a tumultuous one.  Invitations to ride up again during my vacation, to come and spend Saturdays and Sundays, were intermingled with earnest injunctions from Genevieve in regard to a correspondence which she wished to open with me for the benefit of her mind, and declarations from Percy that he would let me know all about the bear as soon as it was decided what would be the best thing to happen to him, and entreaties from little Clara that I would not go away without kissing her good-bye.