He glanced around him to right and left.
"There is no one looking," he said, drawing his chair two or three inches nearer; "may I—may I hold your hand?"
"I cannot help it," I replied, and I spoke in a low, uncertain manner.
He smiled, took my hand, and held it very tightly between both his own.
"You have a very little hand, Heather," was his remark, and he held it yet tighter.
"You are squeezing it," I said; "you are quite hurting me."
"That is the last thing I would do," was his reply. He loosened the pressure of his hand over mine the merest fragment. After a minute of silence, he said:
"Of course, as you allow me to hold your hand, things must be all right."
"I—I am not sure," I answered.
"But I mean that you are willing that I should arrange this thing, take all the trouble off you, you understand. You are willing, quite willing, that we shall be married as soon as ever I can arrange it?"