He moved to her side, marveling at her unaffected beauty.
Looking out of the window he saw that the moon, which had been hidden by the clouds an hour before, had crested her "green and friendly hill" with an outline of silvery-blue.
Something in her pose that suggested to him that she was waiting for him to speak gave him the courage. Yet he was afraid to look at her as he spoke, afraid to see what effect his words had upon her.
"I do—love you," he said.
That little gasp as she caught her breath, what did it mean? Still unable to face her, he continued:
"He knew it; Betty knows it; mother knows it and I want the whole world to know it—I love you." He could say no more.
Gently, caressingly, her small white fingers touched his unbandaged hand. Tremulously he turned his head and saw her answer in her eyes and slowly, almost reverently, he lifted her hand to his lips. A mocking bird broke into joyous song in a tree outside, a golden flood of music to mock the silent song in his heart.
* * *
Lights were shining through the curtains on the windows of the Sprockett house and his mother was waiting up for him when he returned home. As he took her in his arms to kiss her forehead tenderly he had a fantasy that the wonderfulness of his requited love had miraculously altered his mother's opinion of Consuello. But it was a fantasy, only that.
"Mother, dearest," he whispered, "I'm the happiest man in the world, tonight."