"I suppose," he said, slowly, "I can never be more than your papa's friend."
"You are mine also."
"I would be more than that." Then he paused as if waiting for a reply, but she of course had none to make. "I would be so much more than that, Lucy." Still she had no answer to give him. But there comes a time when no answer is as excellent eloquence as any words that can be spoken. Hamel, who had probably not thought much of this, was nevertheless at once informed by his instincts that it was so. "Oh, Lucy," he said, "if you can love me say so."
"Mr. Hamel," she whispered.
"Lucy."
"Mr. Hamel, I told you about Aunt Emmeline. She will not allow it. I ought not to have let you speak to me like this, while I am staying here."
"But your uncle knows I am with you."
"My aunt does not know. We must go to the house. She expressly desired that I would not speak to you."
"And you will obey her—always?"
"No; not always. I did not say that I should obey her always. Some day, perhaps, I shall do as I think fit myself."