After a walk of half an hour or more they returned to the house and he requested her to play and sing. She went to the piano and ran her fingers lightly over the keys and then, turning to him, asked, "What do you prefer?"
"Oh, you know that I like the old Southern melodies. These present-day songs have so little to them."
She had a good soprano voice, and as she sang the songs of the Southland for him, he drifted out on the beautiful sea of finer sentiments. When she had finished singing he walked over to her and took one of her hands in his. "Ruth," he said, his voice vibrant with emotion, "I love you and if you can give me your love I will be the happiest man in the world."
"Harold," she replied, "we have been such good friends that I am afraid that we may destroy that relation in a desire to establish a more satisfactory one. I have heard that friendship is above love. Our friendship has been such a beautiful thing that I would not want to mar it by——"
"You don't believe that stuff even if such a noted philosopher as Plato did say it, do you Ruth? I know that it isn't true. My heart tells me it isn't true. You don't believe it, do you?"
"Plato was a very wise man," she said, and then dropped her eyes. With the disengaged hand she began to toy with the lace on her dress.
"Ruth, if you would only tell me that you love me I would be thoroughly happy." He spoke with great earnestness.
"You should be very happy anyway. A young architect who has just landed a twelve thousand dollar job certainly should be happy."
"I am delighted to have the job, but my heart craves a greater happiness. If you will only——"
The door between the dining room and living room was thrown open and Aunt Clara entered. Harold dropped Ruth's hand and blushed profusely.