“I think you must make it a little plainer,” she said.
“Well,” said Breckenridge quietly, “it is just this. You have done a good deal for me already, and I almost dare to fancy I could be a credit to you if you would do a little more, while it would carry conviction to my most doubting relatives if you went back to the old country with me. They would only have to see you.”
Flora Schuyler smiled. “This is serious, Mr. Breckenridge?”
Breckenridge made her a little inclination, and while in a curious fashion it increased Flora Schuyler’s liking for him she recognized that he was no longer the light-hearted and irresponsible young Englishman she had met a few months ago. He, too, had borne the burden, and there was a gravity in his eyes and a slight hardening of his lips that had its meaning.
“I never was more serious in my life, madam,” he said. “I know that I might have spoken—not more respectfully, but differently—but when I am too solemn everybody laughs at me.”
“Does it not strike you that you have only regarded the affair from one point of view so far?”
Breckenridge nodded. “I understand. But one feels very diffident when he knows the slight value of what he has to offer. I should always love you, whether you say yes or no. For the rest, there is a little land in the old country, and an income which I believe should be enough for two. It seems more becoming to throw myself on your charity.”
“And what would Larry do without you?” asked Miss Schuyler.
The quick enthusiasm in Breckenridge’s face pleased her. “Larry’s work is splendidly done already,” he said. “He asked nothing for himself—and got no more; but now the State is offering every man the rights he fought for. The proclamations are out, and any citizen who wants it can take up his homestead grant. It will be something to remember that I carried his shield; but Larry has no more need of an armour-bearer.”
“I am older than you are.”