She relieved him with a laugh; it was a delight to feel that they had been both inspired by the same good thought.
‘I am glad you did not go sooner, Philip,’ she said, standing up, her hands clasped round his neck. ‘Do you know that, to-night, you have made me feel what I thought was impossible?’
‘That must be worth knowing. What is it?’
‘That I care more for you than ever,’ she whispered, as she rested her brow on his shoulder.
A pause, as his arms tightened round her—his heart in his throat. Then, as people do in accepting the greatest benefactions, trying to hide with a laugh what they, from the hard teachings of stoic philosophers, have come to regard as the foolish weakness of tears of joy.
‘I was not sure for a minute whether to be glad or sorry for that, Madge. But of course it is right. What is it Othello says—or wishes? Something about love growing as years go on. That’s how it will be with us.’
‘I think so—I believe so. But you must not quote Othello. He killed his love because he had no true faith in it.’
‘But then he was a nigger, and I am not. All right. I won’t mention the gentleman again. I shall be here to-morrow.’
‘Very well. Go to Uncle Dick now and help him in my place. He has some papers to fill up, and I intended to do them to-night. He will be disappointed if they are not done.’
‘Now, there is a real good girl,’ said Philip, delighted. ‘I like you best when you are asking me to do something for you.’