"Unhappy?"
"Yes—because I am going to be unhappy anyway. And if I knew that you once cared, it would be easier for me—in after years.... Michael——"
"Yes?"
"Would you care for that much of me?"
I drew her nearer.
"You must not kiss me," she whispered.
"I——"
"Please.... It is a sign of troth plighted.... And is desecration else.... Troth plighted is a holy thing. And that cannot be between us, Michael. That cannot happen.... And so, you must not touch my lips with yours—dear Michael.... Only my hand—if you do care for me——"
I kissed her hand—then, slowly, each finger and the fragrant palm, until it seemed to disconcert her and she withdrew it.
"Now take me back," she said in an uncertain voice that trembled slightly, "and remain my dear, frank, boyish friend.... And let me plague you a little, Michael. Won't you? And not be angry?" She asked so sweetly that I began to laugh—covered her hand with kisses—and laughed again.