Meanwhile Mark ran down and picked up the white fan from its lily bed, shook the dew-drops from its delicate feathers, and, as he restored it to its owner, he looked straight into her eyes.
“Honor,” he said, in a low eager voice, “you will let bygones be bygones, and forgive me, won’t you?”
Honor hesitated, her lips trembled as if uncertain whether to laugh or to cry.
“You like me a little—I hope,” he pleaded anxiously.
The lips broke into a faint but unmistakable smile.
“You are the only girl I have ever cared two straws about. I swear that this is the truth, and not the usual stock statement. I had a presentiment that you were my fate that night we walked along the railway line. That Eurasian fellow in the hut had a prophetic eye!”
“I am not so sure of that!” she said, with sudden vehemence. “You knew very well that you ought to have spoken out long ago.”
“I would have spoken to you weeks ago, but that I was uncertain what answer you would give me.”
“Oh!” recoiling with a gesture of indescribable horror. “What do you think I meant? I mean, that you might have let us all know who you were.”
“Better late than never, I hope,” he rejoined quickly. “My uncle knows all about you. May I speak to your aunt to-night?”