"No woman ever meant to tell anything," he retorted in good-humored sarcasm; "but they always do tell everything. Then if you and Dick both know all about it, perhaps I had better give the letter to him."
He offered to put the letter into his pocket, but she held out her hand for it beseechingly.
"Oh, don't give it to anybody else," she begged. "Let me put it into the fire, and be through with it. It's done mischief enough!"
"It may have done some good too," he said enigmatically. "I hope nothing worse will ever happen to you, May, than to be engaged to me. I give you my word that, as little as you imagine it, it's your interest and not my own I'm looking after. However, that's neither here nor there."
He put the letter into his pocket without farther comment, disregarding her imploring look. Then he rose, and held out his hand.
"Good-night," he said. "Some accepted lovers would ask for a kiss, but I'll wait till you want to kiss me. You will some time. Good-night. You'll remember what I wrote you about mentioning our engagement."
She had at the mention of kisses become more celestial rosy red than in the whole course of that blushful interview, but at his last word her color faded as quickly as it had come.
"Oh, I am so sorry," she said, "I had told one person before your note came. She won't tell though."
"Being a 'she,'" he retorted mockingly.
"Oh, it was only Alice," May explained, "and of course she can be trusted."