He looked puzzled, as well he might. Then he
smiled, took my hand and led me away from the
door — to the knob of which I was still holding with
all my might — to the sofa.
“Let’s sit down and talk it over ‘comfy,’” he said.
I just confessed the whole shameful business. It was terribly humiliating, but it served me right. I told him how people were always twitting me for never having had a beau, and how I had told them I had; and then I showed him the porous plaster advertisement.
He heard me right through without a word, and then he threw back his big, curly, gray head and laughed.
“This clears up a great many mysterious hints I’ve been receiving ever since I came to Avonlea,” he said, “and finally a Mrs. Gilbert came to my sister this afternoon with a long farrago of nonsense about the love affair I had once had with some Charlotte Holmes here. She declared you had told her about it yourself. I confess I flamed up. I'm a peppery chap, and I thought — I thought — oh, confound it, it might as well out: I thought you were some lank old maid who was amusing herself telling ridiculous stories about me. When you came into the room I knew that, whoever was to blame, you were not.”
