"I wonder," she said pensively, "why it is one can never find another man like Arthur. Do you suppose it is because he was the ideal?"
For an instant, I swallowed hard—then I plucked up bravely, or tried to, don't you know.
"Jolly likely!" I chirped. Then gloomily: "Oh, I say, you know, was he your ideal?"
"Always!"—the blue eyes lighted wistfully—"I suppose it's because he was my first love; I found him so brave, so noble-mannered, you know—so simple!"
Simple! Dash simple people—never could stand them! Thing I admired was brains! Aloud I said gently—almost humbly:
"So glad you like him, don't you know—did like, I mean!"
"Did like? I do still!"—her tone lifted in earnest protest—"I love to think of brave, dear Arthur and his knights—so few, and yet so full of love, of gallantry and daring!"
So his nights were like that! By Jove, I was devilish glad then that they had been so few—that was some comfort, dash it! I wondered if the beggar was dead. But what difference did it make now, after all? She was mine now and she knew I knew it; that was why this sweet, ingenuous child was laying bare to me her past—the darling!
Really, I ought not to let her go on.
"Never mind them now," I urged soothingly. And heedless of the windows, I hitched a wee bit closer. "That's all past and gone and you and I will yet see as good nights as they ever were." I spoke with assurance. "Don't you think so?" I added softly.