‘Hence, pageant History! hence, gilded cheat;
Swart planet in the universe of deeds!’”
“Ah, that’s poetry,” said Jack. “I don’t care very much about it!”
“Nor does he!” she replied. “I quoted those lines to him the other day and he said Keats was honey and water.”
“Never mind what ‘he’ said,” and Jack’s voice took on a raspy tone. “I daresay you’ll think me an impertinent sort of chap but—but you know I’m very fond of you—”
She stretched out a little white hand towards him, and he took it tenderly in his own large strong palm.
“Yes, I do know!” she said, sweetly. “And—and it’s kind of you—”
“Kind!” echoed Jack. “Kind! There’s nothing kind about it! Nobody could help being fond of you—but I—I’m just a rough chap—and I’ve no settled position yet and no money—and it wouldn’t be fair to ask you to marry me”—here his clasp tightened involuntarily on the soft fingers he held—“but I want you to, all the same!”
“Do you? Really?” she queried, with a bewitching uplift of her pretty eyebrows. “Oh, Jack! Marriage is such a dreadful business! Just think of the married people we know! Take the Simmonses—”
Jack whistled,—a dismal, dubious whistle.