“I told you I had a word with Florrie.”
“Florrie?” she asked. “What could Florrie tell you?”
“Nothing,” he said, “that she knew she told. Guessing is another of the things I’m good at.”
She saw it then, to what perceptiveness his love had brought him, to what high action. It had sped her cloud and she saw, clear-eyed as he, his fine, impeccable fidelity.
“Oh! And I called you petty! I told you you were jealous. Dubby, I didn’t know. You’d have done that for me!”
“Well, you see,” he apologized, “I’m in love with you.”
“Why can’t we order love? Why does it come all wrong?” she cried.
“It hasn’t come so wrong but I can put it right for you,” he said, making his offer again.
“I? I didn’t mean myself,” she said, wondering. “Love’s not come wrong to me. It’s you I’m thinking of.”
“But is it right for you?” he asked.