“Good God! Marry Betty!”
“Yes.”
Fessenden rose abruptly to his feet and walked away a few paces. He stared unseeingly across the stretch of sand to the sea beyond.
A hundred images of Betty flitted before his mind’s eye—images graceful and smiling, sad and gay, merry and serious, always infinitely winsome. Her voice sounded in his ear—teasing, angry, kind—always low-toned and charming.
He faced Danton. “Marry her? I’ve been wanting to do that very thing since the first minute I saw her—only, I didn’t know it.”
His friend’s face shone with relief and pleasure. He broke into a boyish laugh.
“Great!” he said. “You’re the right sort, Tom. I knew it, and I told Madge so.”
Fessenden could not respond to the other’s mood. “All very well. But what will Betty say?”
“Ask her.”
“I intend to. But is she old enough—is she in a position—to understand?”