"Oh, well; so-so. He's an anti, so what can you expect? I told him that you had the finest mind of any woman I had ever met. I told him that mighty few men could talk back to you—" He paused to fumble about in his pocket for his tobacco-pouch. "Laura gave me that," he interpolated; "Leighton said—"
She leaned forward and laid her hand on his arm; the suddenness of her grip made him drop the little pouch, and as he stooped to pick it up, she said:
"I've missed you—awfully."
He did not see that she was trembling. He put the pouch in his pocket and retorted, gaily:
"I bet you haven't missed me as much as I've missed you!"
"I've missed you," she said, in a whisper, "more!"
Howard Maitland stopped midway in a breath. But instantly the thought that leaped into his mind vanished in shame. He actually blushed with consternation at his own caddishness. He tried to say, again, something about her letters—but she was not listening; she was saying, calmly:
"You see—I love you."
He was dumb. His brain whirled. He said to himself that he hadn't understood her—of course he hadn't understood her! What had she said? Good Lord! what had she said? Of course she didn't mean—what you might think! She only meant—friendship. If he let her know what, for just one gasping moment he had thought she meant, somebody ought to kick him! But the shock of her words brought him to his feet. She rose, too, and stood smiling at him. "Of course," he began, "we are—you are—I mean, I don't know what I would have done without your let—"
"I love you," she said. She held out both her hands—"will you marry me, Howard?"