“Oh, I should be so PROUD!” she breathed.
There was a quiver in her voice, almost a sob. He bent toward her. She was looking off toward the sea, the moonlight upon her face was like a glory, her eyes were shining—and there were tears in them. His heart throbbed wildly.
“Helen!” he cried. “Helen!”
She turned and looked up into his face. The next moment her own face was hidden against his breast, his arms were about her, and . . . and the risk, the risk he had feared to take, was taken.
They walked home after a time, but it was a slow, a very slow walk with many interruptions.
“Oh, Helen,” he kept saying, “I don't see how you can. How can you? In spite of it all. I—I treated you so badly. I was SUCH an idiot. And you really care? You really do?”
She laughed happily. “I really do . . . and . . . and I really have, all the time.”
“Always?”
“Always.”
“Well—well, by George! And . . . Helen, do you know I think—I think I did too—always—only I was such a young fool I didn't realize it. WHAT a young fool I was!”