He flushed, and said abruptly:
“You must have known I sent you those.”
“I did not,” I answered rather coldly; “there was no card or note with them.”
“I thought you’d know,” he said with increasing embarrassment; and then he added, almost desperately, “you must know, Constance, that I love you.”
“I know nothing,” I replied, drawing myself up haughtily; “I take nothing of this kind for granted. If you want me to understand, you must come out openly.”
“I have done enough, surely,” he said, “enough to lead you to guess the truth.”
“I guess nothing of this sort!” I reiterated; “what right have you to place me in this position? What right have you, or any other man to deprive a woman of one of her dearest privileges—that of being wooed?”
“Constance!” he cried, and all his embarrassment was gone, “aren’t there a thousand ways of saying ‘I love you?’ and haven’t I said it in every way but one?”
“That one was the most important of all,” I answered; “I would have given more to hear those words than to receive every other token.”
His face lighted up with a sudden flash, and he started impulsively toward me.