No answer. She could not have spoken if life or death had hung on a single sentence from those sweet lips, from whence the rose-tint had faded, leaving them cold and white, and drawn as if in pain. She gathered up her fragrant burdens and carried them into the house, leaving a momentary shocked silence behind her.
Presently the captain spoke, in the calm, assured tone in which we chide a dear and intimate friend:
"Bruce, have you been flirting with that pretty, innocent child?"
Conway fidgeted a little, but he answered nonchalantly enough:
"Why do you ask? Have you fallen in love with her?"
"I was not speaking of myself; we will keep to the subject, if you please. She loves you." His voice grew tender, reverential.
"Well?"
That simple monosyllable might have expressed many things. In Bruce Conway's non-committal tone it meant nothing.
"You will marry her?"
"Why, no."