“He wrote to papa. He cared more than we thought. And there was—I did not tell you about the rose then. I felt afraid that he was trifling with me. And somehow—”
I understood it all when she did tell me in her sweet halting way. A faint glimmering of love, or what might be love if there was truth for a foundation stone.
“Are you quite certain that Stephen—?”
“Oh you dear, tender heart! Yes, quite sure that he does not love me only in a friendly fashion. We suit, and can talk of everything. He will not be so with the woman he loves—at first.”
“But it is so—queer;” and I smiled reflectively.
“Yes. We are not engaged, you know. He only asked for the privilege of coming honorably. I thought he would wait a year—but he has not.”
“He is earnest, if impatient.”
“Yes. I believe I like the imperiousness.”
We went down stairs presently, Papa came in with a letter.
“For you, little woman;” he said, looking curiously at me.