Betty was silent. The remorseful feeling rose again in her breast. Granton spoke lightly enough, but she wondered if she had not humiliated him terribly. She played nervously with her fan, hardly knowing how to phrase it, yet longing to offer something in the way of apology.
“I hope,” she began, “I hope—”
Nat regarded her closely in the fading light as she hesitated, and by some happy inspiration divined her softened mood. He noted the downcast eyes and troubled face. Without fully comprehending her mental state, he yet found courage to move a trifle nearer.
“Yes?” he queried, laying his fingers upon the arm of her chair.
Betty looked at the hand which had approached so near, and a sudden trepidation thrilled her. She opened and closed her fan nervously, but made no attempt to finish her broken sentence.
“Betty,” her lover said, leaning forward, “now I am in the dust at your feet, you must at least let me speak. You’ve kept out of my way so for the last two or three weeks that I was afraid you disliked me; but now I understand where you have been. You know how much I care for you.”
Still she did not raise her eyes.
“Don’t you care for me?” he pleaded. “I’ve been in love with you all summer. You must have known it.”
He paused again, yet she did not answer, though a great tide of joy thrilled her whole being. Her lover seized both her hands and bent down until his cheek almost touched hers.
“Will you marry me, Betty?”