George dropped the banter in his tone. “Nothing wrong to-day, is there, dear? Nothing up?”
How sadly wrong everything in truth was she had determined not to tell him until she more certainly knew its extent. She shook her head; reassuringly smiled.
“Well, that's all right—there couldn't be on a morning like this. Now we've got to begin at the beginning. Mary, I planned it all out last night—all this conversation. We've got to begin at the beginning—Do you know I've never told you yet that I love you? You knew it, though, didn't you, from the first, the very first? Tell me from when?”
“George, this is awfully foolish, isn't it?”
“Never mind. It's jolly nice. It's necessary, too. I've read about it. It's always done. Tell me from when you knew I loved you.”
“After last Saturday.”
“Oh, Mary! Much earlier than that! You must have!”
“Well, I thought perhaps you—you cared after that first day when you came here.”
“Not before that?”
She laughed. “Come, how could I? Why, I'd hardly seen you.”