Pollyanna half started from her chair. Her eyes sought the door, this time openly, longingly.
"Oh, but, Mr. Pendleton, I wouldn't do it at all, at all," she stammered, a little wildly. "I'm sure you'd be—much happier as—as you are."
The man stared in puzzled surprise, then laughed grimly.
"Upon my word, Pollyanna, is it—quite so bad as that?" he asked.
"B-bad?" Pollyanna had the appearance of being poised for flight.
"Yes. Is that just your way of trying to soften the blow of saying that you don't think she'd have me, anyway?"
"Oh, n-no—no, indeed. She'd say yes—she'd HAVE to say yes, you know," explained Pollyanna, with terrified earnestness. "But I've been thinking—I mean, I was thinking that if—if the girl didn't love you, you really would be happier without her; and—" At the look that came into John Pendleton's face, Pollyanna stopped short.
"I shouldn't want her, if she didn't love me, Pollyanna."
"No, I thought not, too." Pollyanna began to look a little less distracted.
"Besides, she doesn't happen to be a girl," went on John Pendleton. "She's a mature woman who, presumedly, would know her own mind." The man's voice was grave and slightly reproachful.