“Nor who I am.”
“I know who you will be. That’s enough.”
“Nor if I am—nice.”
“Don’t jest.”
“Nor my profession. I may be an artist’s model, soubrette, chorus lady, paid companion, waitress, manicurist, or lady’s maid.” She glanced down at her very homely dress.
“I don’t care what your profession has been. I can look into your face and see that it has been honorable. It’s going to be Mrs. King Dubignon. Look up! I love you, can’t you see it?” Her eyes, swimming in light and laughter, met his.
“You absurd boy! Do you always make love this way? Is it the custom—‘a little further down’ than Charleston and Savannah?”
“I have never before spoken of love to a girl. My lips have never touched a girl’s.” And then, “I have been waiting for you!”
A deep flush suffused her neck and face, and for the first time she betrayed confusion.
“Don’t, please!” she whispered. “It is impossible that any man could love any girl so suddenly. And I don’t like to be treated as a silly.” King had whirled suddenly and was facing her.