She looked up at him, her eyes as clear as crystal. “Hello, Boatswain Bob!”
The greeting steadied him immeasurably. He knew that not so much what he should say in the next few minutes, as how he should say it, might determine the course of their lives. He longed with all his strength to be given a divine tact and a divine gift of speech.
He threw himself on the sand at a respectful distance. “Hello, Nancy Lee!”
Thanks to Kitty Hawk’s “Bazaar,” a scarlet ribbon again shone at Betty’s throat. Her hair was as he had last seen it—coiled superbly about her head. Again he felt the air of dignity and aloofness of which the coiled hair seemed the symbol.
Fessenden’s eyes, quiet and tender, met her own, his glance as clear as hers.
“Betty,” he said, very simply, “we’ve been through a lot together, and I want you to marry me. Will you? Don’t think I’m asking you because of any chivalrous fancy. I want you because I love you, and for nothing else in the world.” His own words fired him. “Dearest, I’ve loved you since the first minute I saw you. You know that—in the bottom of your heart, you know that’s true.”
Her eyes, which at first had met his unwaveringly, quailed a little. The red crept slowly into her cheeks.
ALL THE CHIVALRY IN FESSENDEN’S NATURE STIRRED AT HER WORDS
“I’m only a—a country girl,” she said. “And you’re the famous Mr. Thomas Fessenden. I didn’t know your real name until Madge told me, you know.”