“I wish you—I wish I could choose—everything for you,” he said unsteadily.
“I wish so, too. You are exactly the sort of man I like.”
“Do—do you mean it?”
“Why, yes,” she replied, opening her splendid eyes. “Don’t I show the pleasure I take in being with you?”
“But—would you tire of me if—if we always—forever——”
“Were friends? No.”
“Mo-m-m-more than friends?” Then he choked.
The speculation in her wide eyes deepened. “What do you mean?” she asked curiously.
But again the lone note of the thumped piano signaled silence. In the sudden hush the poet opened his lids with a sticky smile and folded his hands over his abdomen, plump thumbs joined.
“What do you mean?” repeated Lissa hurriedly, tightening her slender fingers around Harrow’s.