“What?”
“That I told you I loved you. You think differently of me now, do you not?”
“A little differently, perhaps,” Constance answered. Then, feeling that she was blushing, she turned her face away and spoke rapidly. “Yes and no. I think more of you—that is to say, I think better of you. You have done so much in this year. I begin to see that you are more energetic than I fancied you were.”
“Does it seem to you as though what I have done has brought us any nearer together, you and me?”
“Nearer? Perhaps. I do not quite see how you mean.” The blush had disappeared, and she looked puzzled.
“I mean because I have begun—only begun—to make something like a position for myself. If I succeed I hope we shall seem nearer yet—nearer and nearer, till there shall be no parting at all.”
“I think you mistake a letter in the word—you talk as though you meant dearer, more than nearer—do you not?” Constance laughed, and blushed again.
“If I said that you were making love to me—to-day, as you said a year ago—would you answer that you meant it—as I did?”
“What impertinence!” exclaimed Constance still laughing lightly.
“No—but would you?”