Chapter XIII—THE OPTIMIST AT LARGE
CONNIE DEERING walked back to the house with a silent and still tremulous Jimmie. She had slid her hand through his arm, and now and then gave it an affectionate pat. Within the limitations of her light, gay nature she was a sympathetic and loyal woman, and she had loved Jimmie for many years with the unquestioning fondness that one has for a beloved and satisfying domestic animal. She had recovered from the fright his frantic demonstration had caused her, and her easy temperament had shaken off the little chill of solemnity that had accompanied her vow of secrecy. But she pitied him with all her kind heart, and in herself felt agreeably sentimental.
They strolled slowly into the hall, and paused for a moment before parting.
“When you come to think of it seriously, you won't consider I have made too impossible a fool of myself?” he asked with an apologetic smile.
“I promise,” she said affectionately. Then she laughed. Not only was Jimmie's smile contagious, but Connie Deering could not face the pleasant world for more than an hour without laughter.
“I have always said you were a dear, Jimmie, and you are. I almost wish I could kiss you.”
Jimmie looked around. They were quite unperceived.
“I do quite,” he said, and kissed her on the cheek.
“Now we are really brother and sister,” she said with a flush. “You are not going to be too unhappy, are you?”