“I thought I ought not to come, because all of a sudden I found out that I was—what they call in love with you.”
Lucina stood perfectly still, her face turned away.
“I hope you are not offended,” said Jerome; “I knew, of course, that there is no question of—your liking me. I would not want you to. I am not telling you for that, but only that you may not feel hurt because I slighted your invitation the other night, and because I thought at first I could not accept this. But I was foolish about it, I guess. If you would like to have me come, that is enough.”
“You have not known me long enough to like me,” said Lucina, in a very small, sweet voice, still keeping her face averted.
“I guess time don't count much in anything like this,” said Jerome.
“Well,” said Lucina, with a soft, long breath, “I cannot see why your liking me should hinder you from coming.”
“I guess you're right; it shouldn't if you want me to come.”
“Why did you ever think it should?” Lucina flashed her blue eyes around at him a second, then looked away again.
“I was afraid if—I saw you too often I should want to marry you so much that I would want nothing else, not even to help other people,” said Jerome.
“Why need you think about marrying? Can't you come to see me like a friend? Can't we be happy so?” asked Lucina, with a kind of wistful petulance.