“I’ve wondered a good bit recently, Miss Alden,” he said in a queer, repressed matter-of-fact way, “whether you might prefer—or might not prefer—to have me tell you that I love you. You must know it, of course; and since it’s a fact, sometimes it seemed that we might be better friends hereafter if I just told you that fact. You know I’ve not any silly idea that you could care for me. No; don’t please!” he stopped her, when she attempted to speak. “We’ll not arrive anywhere except by sticking to facts; we’re friends; may we ever be!”
“O, we will be, Hubert!”
“Then it is better that I’ve told you I love you.”
“But you mustn’t!”
“I can’t control that, Miss Alden.”
“Mayn’t I be Ruth even now?”
“Ruth, then; yes, I like that. Good night, Ruth.”
“You must go? But tomorrow you’ll——”
“Tomorrow no one knows where any one’ll be. But it’s been great to see you again.”
“And you, Hubert! Good night; good luck, and—thank you again a thousand times.”