“Dolly,” he asked, abruptly, “are you sure of that?”
The other small hand clasped itself across his sleeve in an instant.
“Sure?” she answered. “Sure that I have wanted you? I have been nearly dying for you!” with some affectionate extravagance.
“Are you sure,” he put it to her, “quite sure that you have not sometimes forgotten me for an hour or so?”
“No,” she answered, indignantly, “not for a single second;” which was a wide assertion.
“Not,” he prompted her, somewhat bitterly, “when the MacDowlas gives dinner-parties, and you find yourself a prominent feature, 'young person,' as you are? Not when you wear the white merino, and 'heavy swells' admire you openly?”
“No,” shaking her head in stout denial of the imputation. “Never. I think about you from morning until night; and the fact is,” in a charming burst of candor, “I actually wake in the night and think about you. There! are you satisfied now?”
It would have been impossible to remain altogether unconsoled and unmoved under such circumstances, but he could not help trying her again.
“Dolly,” he said, “does Gowan never make you forget me?”
Then she saw what he meant, and flushed up to her forehead, drawing her hand away and speaking hotly.