"Nat, what do you mean?"
He turned to her. "Betty, does it make you—feel that way toward me?"
She coloured divinely. "Why, Nat, of course ... Why, everyone..."
"That's why I came here, Betty," he pursued, blind to her embarrassment. "I came here with the idea... of getting married...."
He was staring gloomily at the floor and could not see the light that dawned upon the girl's face. Absorbed in the struggle with his conscience he had no least suspicion of how his words were affecting her. He knew only that he must somehow make a confession to her, that to own her regard and gratitude on the terms that then existed between them was utterly intolerable.
"You never guessed that, did you?"
"No," she breathed brokenly. "No, Nat, I—"
"Well, it's the truth and...." He rose and moved away. "But I can't tell you just now—not now...."
"No, not now, Nat." Betty, too, got up. "I think I'd better go home and see father—I mustn't forget—" she faltered, half blinded by the mist of the happiness before her eyes.
"No—wait." She stopped to find his gaze full upon her; for the first time he comprehended that she had not understood, that, worst of all, she had misunderstood. "I must tell you," he blurted desperately, "I must."