"No—and it is hard, because I am going away—and—it will not be pleasant to think how you are changed."
"I wish you wouldn't say such things to me, John."
"I had to—because—I love you. If I was a boy when I was, as you say, silly, I was in earnest. It was nonsense to ask you, to say you would marry me some day. It wasn't so very long ago after all; but I agree with you, it was foolish. Now I mean to make no such proposal."
"Please, John." She looked up at him as he stood over her so grave, so earnest—and so like Uncle Jim. For the time she got the fleeting impression of this being a man.
He hardly heard her appeal. "I want to say now that I love you." For a moment the 'boy's will, the wind's will,' blew a gale. "I love you and I always shall. Some day I shall ask you that foolish question again, and again."
She too was after all very young and had been playing a bit at being a woman. Now his expression of passion embarrassed her—because she had no answer ready; nor was it all entirely disagreeable.
He stood still a moment, and added, "That is all—I ask nothing now."
Then she stood up, having to say something and unwilling to hurt him—wanting not to say too much or too little, and ending by a childlike reply. "Oh, John, I do wish you would never say such things to me. I am too young to listen to such nonsense."
"And I am young too," he laughed. "Well—well—let us go home and confess like children."
"Now I know you are a fool, John Penhallow, and very disagreeable."