“Is it?” he asked, honestly. “I thought everybody must have seen how I felt toward you.”
“Oh, I supposed you liked me a little,” she went on.
“I love you with all my heart,” he said, and she wondered at the sincerity with which he said it. She wished she had never heard that little Mat Hitchcock talk against him.
“Of course, I can’t expect that you should love me all at once,” he continued; “no; that’s too much to hope. But if you only like me a little now, and if you will only let me love you, I shall be satisfied.” And he leaned forward and took her hand.
“I do like you, Mr. Stone,” she forced herself to answer. She thrilled a little at his fervor, doubtful as she was as to the reason for his wooing. And as his eyes were fixed on her she thought that she had never before done justice to his looks. He was a strong figure of a man. His mouth was masterful; but the woman who yielded herself to him was likely to have a satisfactory defender.
“Well,” he asked, when she said nothing, “is it to be yes or no?” And his voice trembled.
“Will you be satisfied if I do not say ‘no’—even if I do not say ‘yes,’ all at once?” she returned.
“I shall have to be, I suppose,” he answered, and there was a ring of triumph in his voice. “But I shall never let go of you till I get you to say ‘yes.’” And he raised her hand to his lips and kissed it.
She made no resistance; she would have made none had he clasped her in his arms; she was even a little surprised that he did not. She was irritatingly conscious that his warmth was not displeasing to her—that she seemed not to resent his making love to her although she suspected him of a base motive.
For a moment or more nothing was said. He still held her hand firmly clasped in his.