Then, a little later in the evening she came to ask if I would see Mr. Keefe in the writing room. That was the room, you will remember, where we all sat together the night grandmother told us the story about Dorothy Bings.
I said I would go, and I brushed my hair and went on down the stairs. Uncle David and Aunt Lorena were sitting in the library and they saw me, and called out to know if I was feeling better, and I told them quite frankly that I was not—thank them, very much.
So, with them looking at me, I went on to the writing room, and Keefe stood there by the door waiting for me, and we went in and sat down there, one on each side of the table. There was no firelight this time to cheer us. The room was so chilly that it made my teeth chatter, but I did not really think about that till afterward.
“Mr. Knox has told me,” said Keefe as soon as we were seated, “about your grandmother’s will. He has said that he hopes I will not make the fulfillment of its conditions difficult for you.”
“How did he know that you were likely to?” I asked.
“He could not very well help but know that, Azalea. Anyone who has seen me with you must have known that I loved you.”
“Then you do?” I said. “You do, Keefe?”
“Why should I need to take the trouble to say it?” he demanded. “Haven’t you known it from the first?”
“I have hoped it—sometimes.”
“Hoped it?” he said. “Haven’t you heard me say it?”