"I don't know. O she couldn't—couldn't mind!" with a gasp. "She would only—She would wish—She likes you so much—"
"And you—you like me just a little too?"
"Yes. I like you—very much indeed," declared Emmie, her face crimson and her breath quick. "Of course I do. Yes—Only—But Miss Devereux—"
"Miss Devereux has no real control over me. It all rests with you! If you can say 'Yes'—"
"Oh, I don't know!" Some fresh thought seemed to come up, and she shivered, though her cheeks were on fire. "I don't know! Oh, I don't know."
Did she not know how much she cared for him?—Or whether she loved him? Was that it? The poor little hands tried to cover the burning face. "I don't know! I don't know!" was all she seemed able to utter.
"You mean—perhaps—Is it because of your own home troubles, Emmie? But if I am willing—? Darling, if I want to give you a happy home—?"
"I must go to my mother!" and Emmie started up. "Please, please don't say any more now. Please let me! . . . Yes, I know—it is so good of you—"
She had almost said childishly, "So good of you to think of it!" but checked herself in time. "Only, please, I must tell my mother. I want to tell her first. Don't ask me to say any more to-day, please!"
"To-morrow—then—"