“No.”
“I've never wished to be sure of you so much as since you've wished to be sure of yourself.”
“And I've never been so sure as since you were willing to let me,” said Cynthia.
“I am glad of that. Try to think of me, if that will help my cause, as some one you might have always known in this way. We don't really know each other yet. I'm a great deal older than you, but still I'm not so very old.”
“Oh, I don't care for that. All I want to be certain of is that the feeling I have is really—the feeling.”
“I know, dear,” said Westover, and his heart surged toward her in his tenderness for her simple conscience, her wise question. “Take time. Don't hurry. Forget what I've said—or no; that's absurd! Think of it; but don't let anything but the truth persuade you. Now, good-night, Cynthia.”
“Good-night—Mr. Westover.”
“Mr. Westover!” he reproached her.
She stood thinking, as if the question were crucial. Then she said, firmly, “I should always have to call you Mr. Westover.”
“Oh, well,” he returned, “if that's all!”