"But she loves you," he said eagerly. "And she'd be--we'd both be so proud to show people--to prove--that we knew where the right lay!"
"My dear Don Quixote," she answered affectionately, "I love you for asking me! But I will be better alone. I must think, and plan. I've made a mess of my life so far, Greg; I must take the next step carefully!"
He was clinging to her hands as she stood, in all her grave beauty, before him.
"If I hadn't been such a bat, Rachael, all those eleven years ago!" he said, daringly, breathlessly.
"Have we known each other so long, Greg?"
"Ever since that first visit of yours with little Persis Pomeroy! And I remember you so well, Rachael. I remember that Bobby Governeur was enslaved!"
"Dear old Bobby! But I don't remember you, Greg!"
"Because I was thirty then, my dear, and you were seventeen! I was just home from four years' work in Germany; I was afraid of girls your age!"
"Afraid--of ME?" The three words were like a caress, like holding her in his arms.
"I'm afraid so!" he said, not quite steadily. "I'm afraid I've always liked you too well. I--I CARE--that you're unhappy, that you're unkindly treated. I--I--wish I could do something, Rachael."