“Why,” stammered Dunham, “I supposed—I thought—At Messina, you know—”
“Oh!” Staniford walked the deck's length away. “Well, Dunham,” he said, as he came back, “you've spoilt a pretty scene with your rot about Mrs. Rivers. I was going to be romantic! But perhaps I'd better say in ordinary newspaper English that I've just found out that I'm in love with Miss Blood.”
“With her!” cried Dunham, springing at his hand.
“Oh, come now! Don't you be romantic, after knocking my chance.”
“Why, but Staniford!” said Dunham, wringing his hand with a lover's joy in another's love and his relief that it was not Mrs. Rivers. “I never should have dreamt of such a thing!”
“Why?” asked Staniford, shortly.
“Oh, the way you talked at first, you know, and—”
“I suppose even people who get married have something to take back about each other,” said Staniford, rather sheepishly. “However,” he added, with an impulse of frankness, “I don't know that I should have dreamt of it myself, and I don't blame you. But it's a fact, nevertheless.”
“Why, of course. It's splendid! Certainly. It's magnificent!” There was undoubtedly a qualification, a reservation, in Dunham's tone. He might have thought it right to bring the inequalities of the affair to Staniford's mind. With all his effusive kindliness of heart and manner, he had a keen sense of social fitness, a nice feeling for convention. But a man does not easily suggest to another that the girl with whom he has just declared himself in love is his inferior. What Dunham finally did say was: “It jumps with all your ideas—all your old talk about not caring to marry a society girl—”
“Society might be very glad of such a girl!” said Staniford, stiffly.