At last he spoke: “You have granted me so much that I have no right to ask for more. But I have not a great deal of time now to persuade you to marry me. Some day this summer I expect to be ordered to sea again—some day in July or August; and I want to have you for my wife before I go.”
“Oh, Mr. Stone,” she cried, “that is very soon!”
“Can’t you call me John?” he asked, following up his advantage. “Can’t I call you Evelyn?”
She smiled, and did not deny him, and he kissed her hand again. He kept hold of it now as though he felt sure of it. She acknowledged to herself that he was making progress.
They talked for a while about his term of sea service. He thought that he might be assigned to the Mediterranean squadron, and, if he were, she could come to Europe to him and spend the next winter at Villefranche. Then they discussed travel in France and in Italy, and the places they had visited.
With her delicate feminine perceptions she soon discovered that there was something he wished to say but did not know how to lead up to. Curious to learn what this might be, she let the conversation drop, so that he could make a fresh start in his blunt fashion.
Finally he came to the point. “Evelyn,” he began, abruptly, “do you know the Pixleys in San Francisco—Tom Pixley, I mean?”
“I think I have met him,” she answered, wondering what this might lead to.
“He is an old friend of mine,” Stone continued. “He was here a fortnight ago, and I had a long talk with him. He knows all about those Grass Valley mines.”
She smiled a little bitterly and withdrew her hand. She thought that perhaps the stock was worth more than she had supposed, and that Stone had been told so by Pixley. All her contempt for a man who could marry a woman for money rose hot within her.