He saw a grave and tender light creep into her wonderful eyes.
"I'm not arguing about Willie," said he. "You know how much I care for him. But I can't think of him now. It's you I'm thinking of—you—you."
She did not answer but bent her head lower over her sweeping.
"I don't believe there is any flour on my shoes, any way," grumbled the culprit presently, stooping to examine his feet with the air of a guilty child. He thought he heard her laugh.
"How much longer are you going to keep me in this infernal chair?" he fumed.
"Bob!" called a voice from upstairs.
"It's your aunt; she must have heard you come in."
He sprang up only to come into collision with the dustpan full of flour which lay near his chair. A second more and the fruits of the sweeping drifted broadcast in a powdery cloud.
"Delight! Dearest!" he cried, bending over the kneeling figure.
"You must go upstairs and see your aunt—please!" she begged. "She will think it so strange."