"Of course not," interrupted Wade, cheerfully. "Why should you? All I ask is that you think about it now—or some time when you—when you're not busy, you know. I guess I could say a whole lot about how much I love you, but you're not ready to hear that yet and I won't. If you'll just understand that you're the one girl in the whole darn—in the whole world for me, Miss Walton, we'll let it go at that for the present. You think about it. I'm not much on style and looks, and I don't know much outside of mining, but I pick up things pretty quickly and I could learn. I don't say anything about money, except that if you cared for me I'd be thankful I had plenty of it, so that I could give you most anything you wanted. You—you don't mind thinking it over, do you?"
"No," said Eve, a little unsteadily, "but—oh, I do wish you wouldn't talk as you do! You make me feel so little and worthless, and I don't like to feel that way."
"But how?" cried Wade, in distress. "I don't mean to!"
"I know you don't. That's just it. But you do. When you talk so meanly of yourself, I mean. Just as though any girl wouldn't feel proud at having—at hearing—oh, you must know what I mean!" And Eve turned a flushed, beseeching face toward him.
"Not quite, I'm afraid," Wade answered. "Anyhow, I don't want you to feel proud, Miss Walton. If any one should feel proud, it's I, to think you've let me say this to you and haven't sent me off about my business."
"Oh, please!" begged Eve, with a little vexed laugh.
"What?" he asked, perplexedly.
"Don't talk of yourself as though you were—were just nothing, and of me as though I were a princess. It's absurd! I'm only a very ordinary sort of person with ordinary faults—perhaps more than my share of them."
"You're the finest woman I ever saw, and the loveliest," replied Wade stoutly. "And if you're not for me no other woman is."
The sunshade intervened again and they walked on for some little distance in silence. Then Wade began slowly, choosing his words: "Maybe I've talked in a way to give you a wrong impression. You mustn't think that there's any—false modesty about me. I reckon I have rather too good an opinion of myself, if anything. I wouldn't want you to be disappointed in me—afterwards, you know. I reckon I've got an average amount of sense and ability. I've been pretty successful for a man of twenty-eight, and it hasn't been all luck, not by a whole lot! Maybe most folks would say I was conceited, had a swelled head. It's only when it comes to—to asking you to marry me that I get kind of down on myself. I know I'm not good enough, Miss Walton, and I own up to it. The only comforting thought is that there aren't many men who are. I'm saying this because I don't want to fool you into thinking me any more modest and humble than I am. You understand?"