“Esther,” he pleaded, earnestly, “before I answer that will you answer one question of mine, just one? You say you aren’t sure you love me?”
“I said I was not sure I loved you enough to warrant the sacrifice both of us would have to make.”
“I see. Well, just one more. Are you sure you don’t love me at all?”
“No, Bob.”
“You just want us to keep on being friends and wait until you are sure?”
“Until I am sure one way or the other. Yes.”
“All right. I will wait until we are both a hundred years old and have our wedding in the home for aged couples, if that’s necessary. The waiting will end in just one way, because that is the way it has got to end. You are worth waiting for, and I’ll be game. It’s a bargain.... And now what?”
“Why, now sit down and we’ll talk about other things, just as we always have.”
Which was easy to say, but hard to do. They tried to confine the conversation to the safe channels of everyday travel, but those channels were tremendously dull and uninteresting. Esther told the little more she had learned of her uncle’s plan for her European trip and Bob listened absently. It seemed to her—and in spite of her good resolutions she felt a pang of disappointment—that he was surprisingly resigned to the parting and long separation. Instead of groaning when she told him she might remain abroad for even two years instead of one, he smiled and agreed that one year’s study was not sufficient to complete her musical education. It was not until he had risen to go that he gave the reason for his complacency.
“I haven’t told you that you weren’t the only one who had a plan, have I?” he asked, with a twinkle. “I should have told it at first if you hadn’t washed everything else out of my head with that bucket of cold water about not being sure that you cared a continental for me. I’ve had a surprise up my sleeve for you all the evening. I am going to Paris, myself.”