Though by no means proof against so much friendliness, Mr. Desmond still continues to maintain an injured demeanor. Monica lays one little hand lightly on his arm.
"Won't you ask me to call you by it?" she says, with the prettiest reproach.
"Oh, Monica," says the young man, seizing her hand and pressing it against his heart, "you know your power; be merciful. Darling," drawing her still nearer to him, "I don't think you quite understand how it is with me; but, indeed, I love you with all my heart and soul."
"But in such a little time, how can it be true?" says Monica, all her gayety turning into serious wonderment.
"'Love is a thing as any spirit free,'" quotes he, tenderly. "How shall one know when the god may come? It has nothing to do with time. I have seen you,—it little matters how often,—and now I love you. Dear heart, try to love me."
There is something in his manner both gentle and earnest. Impressed by it, she whispers softly,—
"I will try."
"And you will call me Brian?"
"Oh, no!—no, indeed!—not yet," entreats she, stepping back from him as far as he will allow her.
"Very well, not yet."