"I might, after years and years," she said consideringly. "But, Mr. Charteris, I never dreamed you were a—that you felt like that. You are not at all a usual sort." Her mind had reverted to Digby Travers, his looks, his sighs, his serenades. How troublesome he was to manage; how he would always try to get her to himself, when she was longing for the society of others; how he would hold her hand too long at every possible opportunity. That was the lover one read of in stories, one saw depicted in pictures. But—but she began to acknowledge to herself that it was possible that here was a "real one" of another type; his face, his eyes all strenuous, all—all. And he had this in common with the lover of her ideas: he held her hands—both! as if he would never let them go.
Hazel tried to free her hands.
"Yes," said Paul, "when you have told me that you love me."
Silence fell between them.
"If I say I do," Hazel asked slowly, weighing her words, "does it mean I must—does it mean I have got to marry you?"
"It would mean that some day you might love me enough to like to marry me," Paul answered boldly and simply. "But never mind that now, Hazel. Just tell me whether you love me, even—even a little, and I will wait so patiently for that little to grow."
Again she fell to reflecting. "I am fond of you," she said earnestly, "and, yes, perhaps you could call it—call it—just a very little, you know. But I don't know why you need ask me," she said resentfully; "and now will you please let go my hands?"
"Then you care for me—a little?" the young man asked joyfully.
"Yes," Hazel returned with gracious dignity, then, timidly, half in exultation, half in fear, "Am I an engaged woman now?" she asked.
"If you will accept me as your lover, yes," Paul answered. He was all aglow with happiness. It is true that she was timid, shrinking, only now half conscious of what he meant, of what he offered. Yet through it all, nay, because of that very timidity, he felt that she cared for him—a little, and a great yearning filled his soul to make that little much. As yet he must be content that she had not repelled him; for, child as she was, Paul felt assured that the sweet, strong woman-being within her would have rejected his love with none of the uncertainty with which she had half accepted it; would have rejected it finally and with decision—for the time being, at all events. How utterly adorable she was, this queen among girls, this innocent, but half awake, maiden! How could he ever deserve her—how make himself worthy? What an inestimable privilege was his: to teach her love. An intense, an infinite tenderness was astir in the young fellow's strong, manly nature. Ah, how patient, how gentle he must be! Nor could he ever be patient and gentle enough. He would bear that in mind, always.