“Oh, Mr. Percival, is it true?”
“Suppose you say ‘Dick’, and thank God that it is.”
“Dick, Dick, Dick—it is,” said Lena very softly, and she frankly put her arms around his neck, and her soft lips to his cold cheek, so that he lost himself in an ecstasy of delight and wonder.
So they sat in the doubtful shadow of a leafless maple, on a hard park bench, on a chilly November night, and though Dick was half frozen they were both more than happy. And they talked, in lovers’ fashion, over the great fact, and how it all happened.
The mellow chimes of the city hall began to strike twelve—a most persistent hour, and Lena started into consciousness.
“Dick, I must go home,” she said. “None of those girls, the nice girls, Miss Elton or any one like that, would do such an improper thing, would they?”
“I should think not,” said Dick. “I wouldn’t ask them to.”
“And I wouldn’t allow them,” laughed Lena. “Now come, like a dear boy, and walk home with me.”
“There are so many more things that I want to say,” remonstrated Dick. “Stop a moment under this light and let me see your eyes, Lena. You’ll have to look up. I want to talk plain business to you. First, you’ll give up this reporting folly, won’t you?”
“To-morrow,” said Lena joyously.