I didn’t answer that.
“And if I hear of your looking at anybody else,” he went on, “I’ll come over and fill him up with buckshot.”
That made me laugh.
“It’s no joke,” he said quickly, “I’m miserable over—your going off—and when I think that some one else may make you like him—oh, the dickens of a lot—well, then I can’t—I simply can’t see straight—”
“I won’t look at anybody,” I promised, “until you come—”
It seemed to please him. In fact it seemed to please him so much that I had to remind him that we were in a street-car and that people might think it strange to see him kiss my hand—for he did that—but he said he didn’t give two hundred darns what they thought, and he asked me again if I meant it, and I knew I did, and I said I did; and he said, “Well, then, what’s two years?” and he slipped a funny, old hand-made ring with a garnet setting, that he had always worn, over my finger, and I let it stay there.
Then we reached Fiesole, and the woman who carried a baby, called her five children and the poodle dog, and they got off and the other passengers, all in Sunday dress, followed, and then Sam and I.
Miss Sheila met us at the head of the long, broad, cool, shady steps.
“Hello, Sam,” she said in her dear way, “I’m glad to see you—”
He bowed, and she said suddenly, “You are a nice boy,” and, after he smiled and flushed and thanked her, she added, “I was afraid you weren’t nice enough—”