“I wrote him what I had done,” she rejoined. “His answer came yesterday. He approves it.”
“Approves it!” I exclaimed.
“You do not know how eccentric he is,” she explained, naturally misunderstanding my astonishment. She took a letter from her bosom and handed it to me. I read:
“DEAR MADAM: It was yours to do with as you pleased. If you ever find yourself in the mood to visit, Gull House is open to you, provided you bring no maid. I will not have female servants about.
“Yours truly,
“HOWARD FORRESTER.”
“You will consent now, will you not?” she asked, as I lifted my eyes from this characteristic note.
I saw that her peace of mind was at stake. “Yes—I consent.”
She gave a great sigh as at the laying down of a heavy burden. “Thank you,” was all she said, but she put a world of meaning into the words. She took the first homeward turning. We were nearly at the house before I found words that would pave the way toward expressing my thoughts—my longings and hopes.
“You say you have forgiven me,” said I. “Then we can be—friends?”