How wrong it had been to even suspect him! She made up her mind that if he should broach the subject before the time she had named, she might not refuse his pleading.
She was expecting him that very evening. He came at last, looking so handsome, so buoyant, that the girl's heart went out to him at once, as the hearts of so many women had done.
He brought her some beautiful violets, and he knew he had as good as won her when he saw her fasten them in the bodice of her dress.
Florence St. John was sitting in a velvet arm-chair but a short distance away. Her beautiful face was softened, more so than he had ever seen it before, the smile on her lips was sweeter—the proud, half-defiant, flashing loveliness seemed all at once to grow gentle.
He no longer seemed quite sure of her. It was Florence St. John's silence that alarmed him, perhaps.
"I wish," he cried, "that I knew in what words and in what fashion other men make love."
"Does not your own heart teach you?" asked the young girl, suddenly.
His face flushed at the question.
"Yes," he answered; "but I am not sure that the teachings are of the right kind. You have not answered me, and it must be my fault, either because I have not expressed myself properly or that I have not made myself understood. Florence, I want you—with my whole heart I ask you—I want you to become my wife."
"Am I the first person you have ever told this to?" she asked, slowly, looking him in the face.