“And you me. So sweet to be forgiven!”
They both laughed, and she went on. “How funny it seems, after such a very unpromising start, that you should be sitting here with me again, and really quite tolerating me.”
“Yes,” he said in a hoarse undertone, “very droll”; but he was thinking in a rapturous absence how far her word was from painting his attitude toward her. In the same sense one might tolerate the hope of heaven. Mrs. Farrell laughed again, and he smiled his happiness.
“You seem to like being laughed at better than you did at first, Mr. Easton,” she said, gravely. “Why?”
“Oh, I don’t know; perhaps it’s practice. It would be a pity if we learned nothing from experience.”
“Very true, very true indeed. I’ve no doubt you could learn a great many useful things. For instance, now you like being laughed at before your face, perhaps you will come to like being laughed at behind your back.”
“I think that would be more difficult.”
“Well, let us try: I laughed at you to the Woodwards that morning when you mended our broken holdback with your handkerchief. It seemed such a wanton waste of handkerchief; and you did it with the air of laying down your life, of shedding your last drop of blood, for our sakes. It was too ridiculous! There; how do you like that?”
“I don’t mind it—much.”
“Well, you’re really getting on. Shall I tell you now how I made fun of you to Mr. Gilbert?”