Nancy looked up at him when they were seated, and said naively:
“How much you have learned in these last busy years!”
“Have I?” said Steve, his eyes brightening. “I am especially glad you think I have used my time well, because I can never forget that it was you who taught me my letters,––even how to spell my name,” and he turned kindling eyes upon her.
“Did I?” she said, laughing and flushing.
“Yes,” he returned, and a bit of tenderness crept into his voice. “I will never forget how you did it, how picturesquely you characterized the various letters for me, how you thought curly S the very prettiest letter in the alphabet, and how disappointed I was when I found my poor name did not hold a single letter which belonged to yours,” and there was such deep pathos in the last words, as he looked far 195 into the distance, that she stirred uneasily and could make no answer.
After a moment he went on: “I suppose I read in it, even then, a prophecy of our future, how yours must be separate from mine. There could be nothing in common.”
And still she was dumb; not a word came to her lips. But he seemed to need no reply; a sad meditativeness was stealing upon him which made him oblivious for the moment of his surroundings.
But suddenly setting his lips firmly, he turned and said with forced lightness:
“What a bear bachelorhood makes of a man! I have spent so much time alone the last few years that I am already acquiring the bad habit of thinking my thoughts aloud sometimes. Forgive me, won’t you?” And he turned to her with more in the tone than the simple words could convey.
“I have nothing to forgive,” said she, but with an effort,––which he misinterpreted.