“I can believe that, my dear.”
“I mean—a woman that has any real ideas. He would ask me questions by the hour; and we talked about everything. So, of course, we talked about love; and he—he asked if I was happy.”
“I see,” said Thyrsis, grimly. “Of course you said that you were miserable.”
“I didn’t say much. I told him that your work was hard, and that my courage wasn’t always equal to my task. Anyone can see that I have suffered.”
“Yes, dear,” said Thyrsis, “of course. Go on.”
“Well, one day—it was last Friday—he came up with a carriage to take us driving. And Delia had a headache, and wanted to rest, and so Harry and I went alone. I—I guess I shouldn’t have gone, but I didn’t realize it. It was a beautiful afternoon, and we both had a good time—in fact, I don’t know when I have been so contentedly happy. We stopped to gather wild flowers, and once we sat by a little stream; and of course, we talked and talked, and before I realized it, twilight was falling, and we were a long way from home.”
“Go on,” said Thyrsis, as she hesitated.
“We started out. I recollected later, though I didn’t seem to notice it at the time—that Harry’s voice seemed to grow husky, and he spoke indistinctly. He had let the horse have the reins, and his arm was on the back of my seat. I hadn’t noticed it; but then—then—fancy my horror—”
“Well?”
“It happened—all of a sudden.” Corydon stammered, her cheeks turning scarlet. “I felt his arm clasp me; and I turned and stared, and his face was close to mine, and his eyes were fairly shining.”