“No, I don’t, darling—’deed I don’t.” A snatched kiss affirms the sincerity of his words; hers as well, in her lips not being drawn back, but meeting him halfway.
For a short time there is silence. With that sweet exchange thrilling their hearts it is natural.
He is the first to resume speech; and from a thought the kiss has suggested:—
“I know there be a good many who’d give their lives to get the like o’ that from your lips, Mary. A soft word, or only a smile. I’ve heerd talk o’ several. But one’s spoke of, in particular, as bein’ special favourite by your mother, and backed up by the French priest.”
“Who?”
She has an idea who—indeed knows; and the question is only asked to give opportunity of denial.
“I dislike mentionin’ his name. To me it seems like insultin’ ye. The very idea o’ Dick Dempsey—”
“You needn’t say more,” she exclaims, interrupting him. “I know what you mean. But you surely don’t suppose I could think of him as a sweetheart? That would insult me.”
“I hope it would; pleezed to hear you say’t. For all, he thinks o’ you, Mary; not only in the way o’ sweetheart, but—”
He hesitates.