"That night in the dance,—the Spanish dance. We will go somewhere this winter and dance it over again; and the music beats will say—'I love you.'"
"Oh, so long ago?" she exclaims.
"Yes; and I have a visiting-card of yours." He hunts in his card-case. "Here it is—'Miss Nan Underhill.' I've kissed it thousands of times. I have almost worn it out. And when I went home I told my father about the little girl in New York that I must come back and win."
"Oh, did you!" She is touched by the revelation.
"He is a delightful father. Some time I must take you over to see him, or he may come here. But he had promised that I should go to Ebberfeld; and so I did. The aunt had proposed the match."
"And your poor cousin!" Her voice is full of such infinite pity that he gives the little hand a tender pressure for thanks.
"I couldn't have loved her anyhow. She seems older than I; and I am a very boy in heart. Then she was too large. I like little women."
"I am so glad," she cries, with unaffected joy, "for I am small; and I never can grow any larger. But I don't mind now."
"So when my father found how much in earnest I was, he planned the business change. It was my own mother's money, you know. But he has been a good father to me, and I am glad he has some other children. I was to go to Paris."
That seems so magnificent she is almost conscience smitten.