“Ah!” She smiled mysteriously. “There was a boy who asked permission to marry me once. It was just after I’d put up my hair. I was only fifteen, but I looked just as old as I do now. He told mother that he’d saved fifty dollars, and that he wanted to start early so as to raise a large family. Very sweet and domestic of him, wasn’t it?”
“But that wasn’t serious.”
“No, not serious, you poor Meester Deek; but it makes you jealous.—And there were others.”
“How many?”
“Oh, dozens. I’ve always had some one in love with me, ever since I can remember. That’s why I gave names to my hands.”
“Then no one ever held them before?”
“I shouldn’t say that. But almost no one. I used to let Tom hold them when he wouldn’t stop drizzling. Tom was different; he was a kind of brother.”
“And what am I?”
“I’ve often wondered.” Her brows drew together. “You’re a kind of friend, and yet you’re not.”
“More than a friend?”