“Will you not sit down?”
“By no means. Allow me to place the chair for you.” He laid hold of its other arm to push it toward her, and she resisted with all the etiquette at her command.
“Oh no!” she was shocked. “You must allow me to place it for you.” He, in his turn, resisted as firmly.
“Because I am a poor, sick, helpless creature? Is that why you insist on waiting on me?” He had a sturdy masculine objection to this view of him. She blushed.
“Oh, no! That is not the reason.”
The expression in her shining eyes contented him. He sank among the cushions; and, closing his hand over hers, drew her to the broad, square stool beside his chair.
“There! I will sit; and you shall sit beside me and tell me wherefore you have changed your ways with me—holding chairs for me and so forth.”
The whimsical air left him. His black eyes grew grave. He was touched by the look of awe and wonder she turned up to him, and his feeling for her was deepening and taking possession of him.
“One waits on—princes,” she said, with a little catch of her breath. He laughed softly.
“Oh, Madam Make-Believe! Will you crown the vagabond now and make a prince of him—thou cooker of prince’s cakes? If I were a prince, do you know what my name would be? I’d be Prince Run-Away.”