“Then—then why don't you go away?” It was just that trembling little quaver on the low notes which spurred him on to cast the die.
“Jane,” he whispered, “I don't want to go away, and I don't want you to send me. It isn't gray eyes that I care for, or ever have cared for. It's been just you, your own dear, charming self.”
“No, it hasn't been. I haven't even a piquant chin.”
“That doesn't matter. What is a piquant chin, anyway?”
“You ought to know; you wrote it.”
“So I did, but I didn't know what it meant. I just knew that it ought to mean something charming, which you are.”
“I'm not. And I am not accomplished. I don't sing, I don't play, I don't draw.”
“Thanks be for that! I don't, either. But I think you are the dearest girl in the world.”
At that she turned to him and smiled a little as only Jane could smile.
“You told me that once before, a long time ago, you know.”