“There is. Fitzhugh told me everything—all about the poor dead woman.”
“Ah, he shouldn’t have done that.”
“He should!” She stamped a little willful foot. “What else could he do?”
“Why, yes,” he agreed thoughtfully. “I suppose that’s so. After all, a man can’t bear the names that Carroll does and go wrong on the big inner things. He has met his test, and stood it. For he cares very deeply for you.”
“Poor Fitz!” she sighed.
“But here we’re wasting time!” he cried in a panic. “Where can I leave you?”
“Do you want to leave me?”
“Want to!” he groaned. “Can’t you understand that I’ve got to get you to the yacht!”
“Oh, beetle man, beetle man, don’t you WANT me?” she cried dolorously. “Didn’t you mean your note?”
“Mean it? I meant it as I’ve never meant anything in the world. But you—what do you mean? Do you mean that you’ll—you’ll let the yacht go without you—and—and—and stay here, and m-m-marry me?”