"Sophronisba Two, you consider me a reasonably decent sort, don't you?"
"That goes without saying."
"Think I'd make a woman a reasonably good husband?"
"I do," said I, truthfully. Whatever ailed the man?
"Good! And I," the doctor said, deliberately, "know that you'd make any man more than a reasonably good wife. Should you like to be mine, Sophronisba Two?"
The jump I gave threw Potty Black off my knees.
"You're ill, wandering in your wits, you poor man!" I was genuinely alarmed. "Isn't there something I can do for you, doctor?"
"There is: you can marry me, if you want to," replied the doctor, soberly. "Honestly, my dear girl, I'd be kind to you. I like and admire and respect you more than I can tell you, Sophy."
"My dear friend," I said, when I caught my breath, "I like, admire, and respect you, too. But people who marry each other need something more than that. They—well, they need—love."
His shoulders twitched.