"I didn't mean—that way," she protested, between laughter and tears.
"Well, that's the way I mean."
Neither spoke again for a minute. Than: "Do you really—love me?" she murmured.
"What do you think?" He laughed with the sheer unconquerable boyish delight in her.
"I think you're pretending right well," she smiled.
"If I am making believe."
"If you are." Her arms slipped round his neck with a swift impulse of love. "But you're not. Tell me you're not, Larry."
He told her, in the wordless way lovers have at command, the way that is more convincing than speech.
So Phyllis, from the troubled waters of doubt, came at last to safe harborage.