“Will you marry me, Betty?”
She eyed him soberly. “Madge said I must say yes, if you asked me.”
“You poor child! Don’t mind what she says. I want you to love me, if you can.”
“I like you thoroughly, Bob White.”
“Is that all?”
“That’s all—I’m sorry,” she answered gravely. “To marry a man, and not to love him, would be—horrible.”
All the chivalry in Fessenden’s nature stirred at her words. His clenched hands sank to the wrists in the soft sand, and his voice shook a little as he answered:
“Not if—if we marry, and still remain only—friends.”
Her glance searched his soul. “O-oh! Can you—mean what you say?”
“I give you my word of honor. Do you remember that night—good heavens! was it only last Friday?—that night I had supper at your house, and what I told you when you looked as if you were willing to say good-night in a certain way?”