“Oh, ages longer; since that very first time, I think. You know, I kissed you then.”
“Yes, I seem to remember something of the sort.”
“Only, of course, at first,” she added, “I didn’t think about your loving anybody else, or care.”
“You were afraid of that?”
“You did, you know,” she said, accusingly.
“Not really, Mamie,” he protested, earnestly. “Not like this—not in the least like this. Betty Heywood was right when she said I was never in love with her—it was with girls in general, but not with her.”
“I don’t know that that makes it any better,” pouted Mamie.
“Oh, yes, it does; it isn’t in the least like being in love with an individual. Mamie,” he asked, suddenly, “I’ve never been able to understand. What was it led you to me out there in that old house?”
“My love,” she answered, promptly. “I don’t think it the least strange, Allan. When you fell down the stairs, you called me and I heard. How could I have helped but hear?”
“Yes; I suppose that was it,” he agreed, holding her closer. “But it was wonderful just the same.”