"Oh, Sally, Sally!" he said ruefully. "You don't know. You don't know."
"Well," Sally replied impatiently, after she had waited in vain for some moments for him to finish, "what don't I know? I don't know everything. I am aware of that, and that is the first step to knowledge."
"You come near enough to it," he returned, as if speaking to himself. He was looking down, as he spoke, into great gray eyes which, somehow, were very soft and tender. He looked away. "Sometime you will know."
"Everything?" asked Sally, smiling.
"Everything that is worth knowing," he answered gently. "Yes, everything that is worth knowing," he repeated, slowly.
Sally pondered for a brief instant; then flushed a little, but so little that you would scarcely have noticed it, especially if you had been looking away from her, as Fox was at some pains to do.
"We have not settled that question, Fox," she said. He still held her hands, but he scarcely glanced at her. "Fox,"—giving him a gentle shake,—"pay attention and look at me." He looked at her, trying not to let his eyes tell tales. Very likely Sally would think they told of no more than the brotherly affection which she had become used to, from him. Very likely that was what she did think. She gave no sign that she saw more than that, at any rate. "Please let me give them to you," she pleaded, eagerly. "I want to."
He shook his head. "Oh, Sally, Sally!" he said again. "It is hard enough to refuse you anything; but I can't let you do this, for your own sake. What would people think?"
"Oh, fiddle! What business is it of theirs? And how would they know anything about it?"
"I have no doubt there are some who would at once institute inquiries. You probably know such people."