Then she hid her head down on his shoulder and cried.
"Dear—my dear little girl—oh, yes, it would have to happen sometime. And—he loves you."
"Oh, that isn't the worst;" illogically, between her sobs. "He is coming to ask you if he may—and I don't want him to come that way. I just want it as it was before. Polly Upham can't think or talk of anything but her intended, and it gets tiresome. He doesn't seem so very wonderful to me. And wouldn't it weary you to hear me praising some one all the time?"
"I think it would," he answered honestly, yet with some confusion of mind.
"So I don't want it;" with more courage in her voice. "I want good times with them all. And I don't see how you can come to love any one all in a moment."
Was he hearing aright? Didn't she really want the young man for a lover? He was unreasonably, fatuously glad, and the pulses, that were chilled a moment ago, seemed to race hot through his body.
"It was not quite marriage?" a little huskily.
"He wanted to ask if he might have the right to come, and he said he loved me, and, oh, I am afraid——"
She was trembling. He could feel it where she leaned against him. He took sudden courage.
"And you do not want him to come in that way? It would most likely lead to an engagement. And then I should have to listen to his praises continually. Yes, it would be rather hard on me;" and he laughed with a humorous sound.