She seated herself, crossing one knee above the over, interlocking about it slender, white fingers.
"You must have so much to tell me, Tom!" she bubbled, all animation, gladness, eagerness. "Begin! Please, begin! And then I'll tell you everything. Oh, isn't it exciting to go away and come back again!"
"I have a lot to tell you," he said, slowly.
"Why, you speak so seriously, Tom. Aren't you glad to see me?"
"I'm afraid nobody but myself knows how glad…. Kate, I hardly know how to begin what I want to say. I—it's hard; not having seen you so long, makes it harder. I—"
She cried, in pretty amazement: "But what in the world is it? Tom! You almost frighten me! I haven't done anything wrong, have I? Shall I be put to bed without my supper? … Do speak, Tom. Tell me what all this mystery is."
Still slowly, hands folding and unfolding, dark eyes upon hers of violet, he continued:
"Kate, Jack Schuyler loves you; and I lo—"
He had intended to say more; and what that more was one would but have had to look into his eyes to tell; but he had been looking into hers; he had seen the gleam that had leaped there at his words; and that is why he did not finish.
"Tom!" she exclaimed, softly…. And then, "Did Jack tell you that— himself?"