There were long pauses between the talk, as Ray and Frank drove back together into the city.
"Ray!" Frank said at last, suddenly, just as they came opposite to the row of little brown big-hatted houses, where they had talked about the bonny bowls,—"My life is either worth more or less to me, after this. You are the only woman in the world I could like to owe it to. Will you take what I owe? Will you be the onliest woman in the world to me?"
Oddly enough, that word of Mr. Newrich's, that had half affronted him, came up to his lips involuntarily and unexpectedly, now. Words are apt to come up so—in a sort of spite of us—that have made an impression, even when it has been that of simple misuse.
Ray did not answer. She felt it quite impossible to speak.
Frank waited—three minutes perhaps. Then he said,
"Tell me, Ray. If it is to be no, let me know it."
"If it had been no. I could have said it sooner," Ray answered, softly.
"May I come back?" he asked, when he helped her down at the door in Pilgrim Street, and held her hand fast for a minute.
"O yes; come back and see mother," Ray replied, her face all beautiful with smile and color.