“If I could only believe—oh, but believe with all of me that was and is and ever will be—that I could have been so much.”
“You have, you have.”
“Don’t take my love as a light thing,” she warned him. “It’s not that I’m wanting so very much for myself, but I want to be so much to you.”
“Sylvia, won’t you marry me? I couldn’t ever take your love lightly. Indeed. Really.”
“Ah, it’s not asking me to marry you that means you’re serious. I’m not asking you what your intentions are. I’m asking if you want me.”
“Sylvia, I want you dreadfully.”
“Now, now?” she pressed.
“Now and always.”
They had stopped without being aware of it. A trolley-car jangled by, casting transitory lights that wavered across Arthur’s face, and Sylvia could see how his eyes were shining. She dreaded lest by adding a few conventional words he should spoil what he had said so well, but he waited for her, as in the old days he had always waited.
“You’re not cultivating this love, like a convalescent patient does for his nurse?” Sylvia demanded.