“To wait until I care for you?” she said, in the tone of a person who is making a bargain, a hard bargain.
“That’s it,” he assented, with feverish eagerness. “I’m content if you’ll only promise to—to try and think of me as your husband. I know you won’t go from your word.”
“No, I shall not go from my word,” she said, slowly.
“No, I know that, I know I can trust you, and that is the reason I am so anxious to get you to say that you will be my wife.”
“I see,” she said, her lovely eyes looking beyond him into vacancy. “You are easily satisfied, Mr. Bradstone.”
“Am I?” he retorted, nervously. “I don’t think I am.”
“Yes,” she said, dreamily, pushing the hair from her forehead as if it were a heavy burden; “there are so many girls who would be so glad to hear what—what you have said to me; so many! Better, prettier girls than I am.”
“I don’t know any better or prettier,” he said, curtly. “There is no one in all the world that I have ever thought of speaking to——”
“You are very rich,” she said, breaking in upon his protestations with calm self-possession.
“Rich? Yes, I’m rich. I told you so—I didn’t exaggerate. If it is money you want——”