"Stryte I mean it," declared W. Keyse. "Wot d'you tyke me for?"
His bed was in a corner, and a screen baffled prying eyes. She hung over him, trembling, ardent, doubting, joyful, faltering:
"S'y it agyne, darlin'! Upon yer solemn natural——"
He said it with the lean arm round her.
"An' it's me—me wot you wants—an' not that Other One?——"
He swore it.
"You and not that Other One. So help me Jiminy Cripps!"
"An' you've forgiven me—abart them letters?" Her face was coming close....
"Every time I blooming well kissed 'em, arter I bin an' picked 'em up," he declared.
"You did—that?" she quavered, marvelling at the greatness of his nature.