"I can't help saying it here and now," he rushed on. "I—"
"My dear Harlan, you don't mean to say that you are proposing to me here in the face and eyes of this crowd?" She said it with sudden amazed mirth dancing in her eyes, but with a note of satire in her tone.
"I do mean it!" He cried it so loudly that men turned their heads to stare at this earnest young man who was protesting his faith to the handsome daughter of Luke Presson.
"Hush!" she cried, sharply, and then pulled him along. She spoke low. "I don't think you have enough humor in you to realize just what you have done, Harlan. I have found humor lacking in you. You have picked out the lobby of the State House, in the middle of the biggest crowd of all the year, as the 'love's bower' for an offer of marriage. You say you mean it as an offer of marriage. But what you really did was to ask me to attach myself to you as general adviser. You can hire a clairvoyant who will do that much for you, and I doubt if you would engage the clairvoyant as publicly as you have just tried to engage me."
"I understand just what a fool I made of myself," he muttered, huskily.
"But I couldn't wait—and I mean it."
"No, you don't realize just how much of a fool you are where women are concerned," she returned, judicially. "A woman—a young woman—is generally interested in hearing first of all a little about love and devotion and loyalty, all unselfish and uncalculating. Now be patient! Listen to me! A woman can detect real love. And real love seeks its opportunity sweetly and shyly. It doesn't preface itself with remarks about a woman's brain and advisory ability. I believe it has a lot to say about eyes and hair and lips and such things. However, since you admire me in my capacity as adviser, I'll advise you to be sure that you love a woman before you propose to her, and then when you propose pick out some place that's suitable for convincing her that you do love her. I see mother yonder. Take me to her."
Turning away, flushed and angry, from her demure smile, he became bitterly conscious that even had they been alone, under most favorable circumstances, he would have lacked speech for real love-making. He felt that conviction inwardly. He wondered whether he had the capacity for loving as he had read of men loving. It made him a bit ashamed to think of himself as violently protesting, hungrily pleading. A moment before he had been angry because she doubted his love. He knew that he admired her, respected, desired her. Now he argued with himself, and convinced his soul that his emotions constituted love. And having convinced himself, he determined to seek further opportunity of convincing her. It was truly an academic way of settling matters so riotously impatient of calculation as affairs of the heart, and his determination would have appealed to Miss Presson's sense of the humorous more acutely still had he undertaken to explain his emotions of that moment.
Thelismer Thornton, strolling amiably through the lobby throng, came and put his hand on Harlan's shoulder.
"The best way to make good sugar is to simmer the sap slowly, my boy." Harlan glanced sharply at him, but the Duke was not discussing love. "Vard has got into the simmering stage at last. I reckoned he would. He's too good a politician to boil the kettle over as he started in doing. What's the matter with you? You look as though you'd been listening to a funeral oration instead of an address that has put the party back on Easy Street."
His grandson was careful not to explain the cause of his gloom. He was willing to let politics be answerable.