He stared down at her, unbelieving. “Do you mean it, Jane?”
“Yes. Oh, do you think I am dreadful?”
He laughed exultantly, caught her up to him. “Dreadful? You’re the dearest—ever, Jane.”
Yet as he felt her fluttering heart, he released her gently. Her eyes were full of tears. He touched her wet cheek. “Don’t let me frighten you, my dear. But I am very happy.”
She believed herself happy. He was really—irresistible. A conqueror. Yet always with that touch of deference.
“Do you love me, Jane?”
“Not—yet.”
“But you will. I’ll make you love me.”
With keen intuition, with his knowledge, too, of women, he asked for no further assurance. He leaned back against the cushions of the car, and holding her hand in his, made plans for their future. He would get the ring to-morrow. He would come again in a week. As soon as Judy was better, he and Jane would be married.
Then just before they reached home he asked for the rose. She gave it to him, all fading fragrance. He touched it to her lips then crushed it against his own.