"It was intended to be," said he.
"Please—let's not quarrel now," said I coldly. "It gives me the headache to quarrel during dinner."
And he answered between his set teeth, "To quarrel with you—anywhere—gives me—the heartache, Gus."
I had no answer for that, nor should I have had the voice to utter it if I had had it. And then Mr. Bartlett began prosing to me about the Greeley-Grant campaign. And when the men came to join the women after dinner Cyrus went away almost immediately.
I am so happy to-night.
March 5. Cyrus came to me in my office to-day—as I had expected. But instead of looking woebegone and abject, he was radiant. He shut the door behind him. "You—guilty of cowardice," he began. "It isn't strange that I never suspected it."
"What do you mean?" I asked, not putting down my pen.
He came over and took it out of my fingers, then he took my fingers and kissed them, one by one. I was so astounded—and something else—that I made not the slightest resistance. "It's useless for you to cry out," he said, "for I've got the outer door well guarded."
