Jock looked down at the bedclothes and traced a pattern with one forefinger on the sheet. Then he looked up.
"Thinking of you."
"Oh!" said Emma McChesney, like a bashful schoolgirl. "Of—me!"
Jock sat up very straight and clasped his hands about his knees. "I got to thinking of what I had said about having made good all alone. That's rot. It isn't so. I was striped with yellow like a stick of lemon candy. If I've got this far, it's all because of you. I've been thinking all along that I was the original electric self-starter, when you've really had to get out and crank me every few miles."
Into Emma McChesney's face there came a wonderful look. It was the sort of look with which a newly-made angel might receive her crown and harp. It was the look with which a war-hero sees the medal pinned on his breast. It was the look of one who has come into her Reward. Therefore:
"What nonsense!" said Emma McChesney. "If you hadn't had it in you, it wouldn't have come out."
"It wasn't in me, in the first place," contested Jock stubbornly. "You planted it."
From her stand at the foot of the bed she looked at him, her eyes glowing brighter and brighter with that wonderful look.
"Now see here,"—severely—"I want you to go to sleep. I don't intend to stand here and dispute about your ethical innards at this hour. I'm going to kiss you again."
"Oh, well, if you must," grinned Jock resignedly, and folded her in a bear-hug.