"You would have got malaria," said Bartlett. "It's very damp here. I think there must be a pond over there in the woods. You can hear the frogs."
"Oh, yes," agreed Henrietta. "I would have had malaria and rheumatism, but I wouldn't have cared, then—for you see, I had come after the geese, and down here in the tiny glen, with the hush of evening over all, I had met him—"
"Who? Me?"
"My lover," said Henrietta.
"Me," said Bartlett softly, and to Henrietta's surprise he laid his hand gently on hers.
Henrietta blushed and looked away. Her lover, this stout, grim, hard-eyed man of business? She raised her hands to her cheeks and her heart fluttered so she could hardly breathe, while before her startled gaze swam the vision the years had been unconsciously forming. Had romance come to her thus late, in this guise? Was a middle-aged member of the New York Stock Exchange her prince?
"Henrietta," he asked gently, leaning toward her, "shall I finish the story?"
"Why no," said Henrietta, "there was no finish. It had just begun."
"Just begun," whispered Bartlett, and took her suddenly into his arms.
"Oh, please," begged Henrietta, feeling that modesty called for some remonstrance.