“Here we are!”
Beresford handed Floy out, and walked through the cottage gate up to the door with her, whispering under the leafy shade of the honeysuckle vines a tremulous question:
“Will you give me love for love, darling Floy? Will you marry me?”
She tried to draw away the hand he held, murmuring, agitatedly:
“You—you have no right to talk to me like this. You are engaged to Maybelle.”
Her voice broke in a sob, and he put his arm around her, drawing her close to his side, hoping that the shadow of the vines was dense enough to prevent the inquisitive driver from watching their love-making.
“I’m not engaged to Maybelle; never was, either. What made you think so, my sweet one?” he whispered.
“Otho Maury told me so the night before the picnic. He said you were to marry his sister in the fall.”
“I’ll be shot if I do! That is another of Otho’s lies, my pet. The wish was father to the statement. But I never thought of marrying Maybelle, and they know it. You are my only sweetheart, dearest, and unless you promise to marry me, I shall sail the seas over with a broken heart to-morrow.”
“Oh!” she sighed, doubtfully.