“Yes,” said Jim, “I suppose she is.”
“I've gone over and over it until I'm all at sea. I don't seem to have a grip on myself. I can't write to her or go to see her. It would be simply dishonorable after the way she has talked to me—and written.” Harvey rose and walked to the mantel, resting his elbows on it and looking at the photograph.
“When was it?” asked Jim. “That day in the Oakwood Club?”
“Yes.”
“And you know she loves you?”
“I didn't say I knew it.”
“Well, then, I do.”
At this Harvey turned, but Jim's face was quiet.
“Yes, I know it. You say there is nothing in the way but her father?”
“That is all I know about.”