“Now will that thought last till next we meet?” he asked.
“Why you know,” she said wonderingly, “do we not love each other?”
“Yet you will not kiss me?”
She drooped again in shyness.
“I have said enough—without,” she murmured.
“Then, Delia—farewell.”
She glanced at him timidly.
“I—do not use your name,” she whispered. “And yet I know it and yet I am afraid—and know not—”
“Why, you shall call me by it now,” he answered. “And next time it shall be nothing else—John.”
“John!” she echoed, bewildered. “But your name is Andrew.”