‘You haven’t, I hope.’
‘I have, though. I’—with disgraceful triumph—‘have stolen your heart.’
‘Not a bit of it,’ cries Susan, with a triumph that puts his to shame; ‘I gave it to you. Deny that if you dare.’
He evidently doesn’t dare. He does something else, however, that is quite as effective.
‘Well, it’s a month, any way, isn’t it?’ says he. ‘In a month we’ll get married, and we’ll go away—away, all by ourselves, Susan—just you and I, to the heavenly places of the earth. You shall see the world, and the world shall see you—the loveliest thing that is in it.’
‘You mean that we shall go abroad?’ says Susan. ‘To Rome, perhaps?’
‘To Rome or any other spot your fancy dictates, so long as you take me with you.’ He draws her to him as he says this, and—‘Susan, will you answer me one word?’
Susan’s clear, truthful eyes fasten upon his.
‘What is it?’ asks she softly.
‘Am I the one man in all the world you would see the world with?’