The light of her eyes seemed to liquify his heart. He felt that mad, joyous organ spread abruptly, throughout his entire being.
She rose up suddenly and turned to greet him.
"Why—Mr. Van!" she stammered, flushing rosily. "I heard you were in town."
He came towards her quietly enough, the jeweler's box in his hand.
"I called before," he answered in his off-hand way. "You must have been out with poor old Searle."
"Oh," she said, "poor old Searle? Why poor?"
"I told you why before," he said boldly, in spite of himself. He was standing before her by the table, looking fairly into her eyes, with that dancing boyishness amazingly bright in his own. "You remember, too—you can't forget."
The flush in her cheeks increased. Her glance was lowered.
"You didn't give me time to—rebuke you for that," she answered, attempting to assume a tone of severity. "You had no right—it wasn't nice or like you in the least."
"Yes it was, nice, and like me," he corrected. "I've brought you a nugget from the claim." He opened the box and shook out the pin on the table.