"Happy?"
He reads it in her eyes, her voice, in the exultation visible in every feature.
"You are a little jewel, Violet," he replies, tenderly, drawing her nearer and pressing the soft cheek with the palm of his hand, which is almost as soft. "I have been so much engrossed that I am afraid I sometimes neglect you, but never designedly, my darling."
"I know you are very busy," she makes answer, in her cheerful voice, "and I am not a silly child."
He wonders if there is such a thing as her being too sensible, too self-denying! While he could not now take life on the old terms and be tormented daily and hourly by foolish caprices, is there not some middle ground for youth? Are there too many years between them!
"Your birthday will be in June," he says,—he has travelled that far already,—"and you must have a birthday ball."
"And you will dance with me?" she gently reminds, as she slips her arm over his shoulder caressingly.
"Regardless of the figure I shall cut!" and he laughs.
"Oh, but you know you have a handsome figure!"
"And I must do my dancing before I get too stout. Well, yes, I shall be your first partner."