“But you haven't said yes, have you,” he urged. “You will say it, won't you?”
I nodded. “You have my permission, so far as that goes,” I answered.
He sprang to his feet and seized my hand.
“That's topping!” he cried, his face radiant. “I can't thank you enough.”
“That's all right. But there is one thing more. Perhaps it isn't my affair, and you needn't answer unless you wish. Have you consulted your parents? How do they feel about your—your intentions?”
His expression changed. My question was answered before he spoke.
“No,” he admitted, “I haven't told them yet. I—Well, you see, the Mater and Father have been making plans about my future, naturally. They have some silly ideas about a friend of the family that—Oh, she's a nice enough girl; I like her jolly well, but she isn't Miss Morley. Well, hardly! They'll take it quite well. By Jove!” excitedly, “they must. They've GOT to. Oh, they will. And they're very fond of—of Frances.”
There seemed nothing more for me to say, nothing at that time, at any rate. I, too, rose. He shook my hand again.
“You've been a trump to me, Knowles,” he declared. “I appreciate it, you know; I do indeed. I'm jolly grateful.”
“You needn't be. It is all right. I—I suppose I should wish you luck and happiness. I do. Yes, why shouldn't you be happy, even if—”