“I—I didn’t run away—”
“Oh, I knew you’d get over it. I think even the Judge will get over it. I don’t believe he’d care anyhow, if it wasn’t for his old grouch on Senator Northrup.”
“Perhaps. He’s said nothing—to me—”
“But it’s you I care about. Only you. I told you that and I mean it. I don’t want you to be sore—I’d go back and bury myself 236 in the old office for life if I thought it would make it different with you.”
“Would you, Bertram?”
He leaned close to her; she could feel his compelling eyes burning into her averted face. With one part of her, she was conscious that here was a crisis too great for her fully to feel; with the other part, she was aware that an ant, dragging a ridiculously heavy straw, was toiling up her rock.
Now he had her hand, which lay inert in his; now his arm was about her shoulder; and now he was speaking again:
“Can’t you? Can’t you stop looking down on me and believe I’m going to be good enough for you?”
She found power of speech.
“I never—I don’t think that I’m too good for you!” Her Rubicon was crossed. It was a strangely long time before he kissed her, but the silent interval after the kiss was stranger and longer still.