I made him take it out and post it before he could invent conscientious scruples. Then he turned to me irresolutely. “What shall I do next?” he asked, with a comical air of doubt.
I smiled. “My dear fellow, that is a matter for your own consideration.”
“But—do you think she will laugh at me?”
“Miss Montague?”
“No! Daphne.”
“I am not in not in Daphne's confidence,” I answered. “I don't know how she feels. But, on the face of it, I think I can venture to assure you that at least she won't laugh at you.”
He grasped my hand hard. “You don't mean to say so!” he cried. “Well, that's really very, kind of her! A girl of Daphne's high type! And I, who feel myself so utterly unworthy of her!”
“We are all unworthy of a good woman's love,” I answered. “But, thank Heaven, the good women don't seem to realise it.”
That evening, about ten, my new friend came back in a hurry to my rooms at St. Nathaniel's. Nurse Wade was standing there, giving her report for the night when he entered. His face looked some inches shorter and broader than usual. His eyes beamed. His mouth was radiant.
“Well, you won't believe it, Dr. Cumberledge,” he began; “but—”