“We’re not silly. Love is never silly—not real love like ours. Besides, we’re only as old as we feel. Do you feel old? I don’t. I’ve lost—years since this morning. And you know I’m just beginning to live—really live, anyway! I feel—twenty-one.”
“I’m afraid you act it,” said Miss Maggie, with mock severity.
“You would—if you’d been through what _I_ have,” retorted Mr. Smith, drawing a long breath. “And when I think what a botch I made of it, to begin with—You see, I didn’t mean to start off with that, first thing; and I was so afraid that—that even if you did care for John Smith, you wouldn’t for me—just at first. But you do, dear!” At arms’ length he held her off, his hands on her shoulders. His happy eyes searching her face saw the dawn of the dazed, question.
“Wouldn’t care for you if I did for John Smith! Why, you are John Smith. What do you mean?” she demanded, her eyes slowly sweeping him from head to foot and back again. “What do you mean?”
“Miss Maggie!” Instinctively his tongue went back to the old manner of address, but his hands still held her shoulders. “You don’t mean—you can’t mean that—that you didn’t understand—that you don’t understand that I am—Oh, good Heavens! Well, I have made a mess of it this time,” he groaned. Releasing his hold on her shoulders, he turned and began to tramp up and down the room. “Nice little John-Alden-Miles-Standish affair this is now, upon my word! Miss Maggie, have I got to—to propose to you all over again for—for another man, now?”
“For—another man! I—I don’t think I understand you.” Miss Maggie had grown a little white.
“Then you don’t know—you didn’t understand a few minutes ago, when I—I spoke first, when I asked you about—about those twenty millions—”
She lifted her hand quickly, pleadingly.
“Mr. Smith, please, don’t let’s bring money into it at all. I don’t care—I don’t care a bit if you haven’t got any money.”
Mr. Smith’s jaw dropped.