She gave another hysterical laugh. "Well," she cried, "anybody w—would th—think that y—you had me."
"Have I, Sally dear?" he asked, still in that low whisper. "Have I?" He bent over her neck. That was the only part of her that he could reach—that neck with its little tendrils of waving hair.
"Oh, don't!" she cried hastily. "Don't, Fox. You haven't got me—yet," she added in a whisper which was barely audible. But Fox heard it. "It—it isn't because—because you are sorry for me?" she asked in a very small voice.
"No," Fox was smiling again; but, as Sally had her eyes hidden, of course she did not see it. "I am sorry for you as I can be, but that isn't the reason. Guess again."
"Are you sure, Fox? Very sure?" she asked. "Say that you are, Fox," she whispered. "Can't you please say that you are?"
"I am sure."
"And it isn't be—because m—my father," the small voice asked again, "because my father is a—"
"No. That isn't the reason either. I'm quite sure, Sally."
Sally's head was still down on the table and she was wiping away her tears.
"But, Fox," she protested, "you ought not to, you know."