“I am afraid,” murmured the Professor, with a glance that puzzled me, “that you would not be able to read even that last writing.”
“Alas! Professor, I never have boasted any dexterity as an expert in love’s handwriting.”
“You are a man,” she said briefly.
“Is there a last writing on your heart, Professor?”
“Yes,” she answered, a little startled, yet speaking quietly, “there is a first and a last in one, and the ink isn’t dry, either.”
“You don’t mean—”
“Yes, I do,” she added firmly; “I have been intending to tell you about it.”
“You are—not going to be—married?”
“Yes.”
“Professor!” I had breath but for that one gasp. “And you never said a word!”