Miss Harding looked up with a curious expression in her deep brown eyes and a rather timid smile on her lips. It was as if she were wondering if I meditated hurling myself to the depths below, or if I intended to take this opportunity to launch some tender declaration.
I wish I had the command of language of the garrulous and ever entertaining hero of the popular novel. If I ever propose it will be in writing.
I can see that look of startled curiosity on her pretty face as I write these lines, and the more I think of it, the more am I convinced that she expected something far different from what followed.
I wonder what she would have said or done if I had thrown myself at her feet and passionately declared the love I bear to her? I wonder if those tender lips would have murmured the words which would have raised me to the seventh heaven of happiness, or if she would have firmly said—oh, what is the use of wondering?
"No danger of being hit with a golf ball up here," I said, when she remained silent.
And then she laughed. Since there was nothing witty in my remark she must have been laughing at something else. I have an idea what it was, but I had sense enough to laugh with her.
"Do you know," I said, determined to frame a rational statement, "I believe Miss Lawrence is in love with Mr. Wallace."
"Indeed?" she exclaimed. "And what of Mr. Wallace?"
"I believe Mr. Wallace is in love with Miss Lawrence."
"What a delightful state of affairs!" she laughed. "Nothing then remains but to set the date, celebrate the event and live happily ever afterward."