“Shall I tell you what to do, Eve?”
“If you know, Adam.”
“Marry me,” I said. And she looked at me with wide eyes and laughed; and at that laugh I was sore and hurt, though I had no right. Then her laugh died and her eyes filled.
“Forgive me, Adam,” she said. “I should not laugh, but indeed I am overwrought. Truly—truly I might almost find it in my heart”—
I stood before her, trembling. “I should not have said it, Eve. What is a fisherman, that he should offer the little that he has to you? But I am well-to-do, Eve,—for a fisherman. You should never want—nor work. And if you might find it in your heart”—
“I will consider your offer, good fisherman,” she said, smiling. “I must consider. You have—I must tell you, in justice, you have an even chance with that other. But I must consider.”
“So an honest fisherman, well-to-do, has an even chance with a rich rascal whom you do not love. That is a high price on honesty, Eve.”
“Yes,” she said, “but not too high. And now, Adam, be my good friend still.”
“I will,” I replied, “if I may not be more.”
So she was silent, and so was I. And presently I reached down to my basket and drew forth a package wrapped in a napkin.