“I wonder,” said he, “whether you will ever marry any other man?”
Ina was shocked at that. “Oh, my friend, how could I—unless,” said she, with a sly side-glance, “you consented.”
“Consent? I'd massacre him.”
Ina turned toward him. “You asked my hand at a time when you thought me—I don't know what you thought—that is a thing no woman could forget. And now you have come all this way for me. I am yours, if you can wait for me.”
He caught her in his arms. She disengaged herself, gently, and her hand rested an unnecessary moment on his shoulder. “Is that how you understand 'waiting?'” said she, with a blush, but an indulgent smile.
“What is the use waiting?”
“It is a matter of propriety.”
“How long are we to wait?”
“Only a few months. My friend, it is like a boy to be too impatient. Alas! would you marry me in my widow's cap?”
“Of course I would. Now, Ina, love, a widow who has been two years separated from her husband!”