Fox bent and kissed her. "I don't care for Margaret or for anybody else but you," he murmured, "and I never have cared for anybody else. I don't know what you mean. Who is Margaret?"
Sally opened her eyes. "You don't know?" she asked in surprise.
"I don't know. You have spoken of her before—as if I ought to know all about her. Who is she and why must I know about her?"
She did not answer at once. Her eyes were deep and shining and, her eyes searching his, she put up her arms—slowly—slowly—about his neck. "Oh, Fox, dear!" she cried softly. "Oh, Fox, dear! And you don't know!"
She laughed low and happily. Then she drew his head down—it came readily enough—
When Sally emerged, a minute or two later, she was blushing. She seemed burning up. She hid her burning cheeks in Fox's shoulder.
"Fox," she murmured from her hiding place, "don't you remember Margaret Savage?"
"Oh, yes," he answered quite cheerfully. "She is very pretty now—very attractive to the young men—but she's as much of a fool as ever."
Sally laughed again. "And Henrietta told me," she said, "that you might succumb. So you see that, when you spoke of getting married—"
"Why, I meant you, all the time."