"I don't wear my heart on my sleeve," he went on evenly, "but I dare say you have at least suspected my feelings for you. I have never flattered myself that you have regarded me as more than a friend of the house—a good friend, I hope—and you have known me so long that you may have come to consider me an old friend in more senses than one. Yet here I am, Doris, asking you to marry me—"
"Please, Mr. Bullard—" The whisper came from pale lips.
He proceeded gently, steadily—"At present you would say that you cannot give me the affection I desire, yet I would ask to be allowed to try to earn it. I can give you many things besides a whole-hearted admiration, Doris. You are the only woman I have ever thought of as wife. With me you would be secure from worldly hardships, and I venture to believe that you would never regret marrying me. One word more. You have been sad of late. No business of mine, perhaps, but if there is anything I can do, you may command me. Doris, will you marry me?"
Perhaps she liked him better at that moment than ever she had done; certainly better than ever she would like him again. For he broke the long silence with these words—
"I have your father's permission, your mother's approval."
"My father's permission!" she said faintly. For support she laid her arm on the mantel. Her mind was in a turmoil. At last—"I cannot marry you, Mr. Bullard."
"With all respect," he quietly answered, "I cannot take your words as final."
She was not indignant, only afraid. "You speak of my father's 'permission,'" she managed to say. "Does that include his 'approval'? You will forgive me, but—"
"I will forgive you anything but a refusal."
"Then please excuse my leaving you. I will come back."