“Not a friend. We—we don’t make friends,” she said in a small, forlorn voice with a catch in it.
“You got one,” he said stoutly. “Maybe he don’t amount to much, but—” He broke off, struck by an idea. “Say, June, why couldn’t you run off with me? We’d go clear away, where he wouldn’t find us.”
“How could I run off with you?” A pink flood poured into her face. “You’re not my brother. You’re no kin.”
“No, but—” He frowned at the ground, kicking at a piece of moss with his toe to help him concentrate. Again he found an idea. “We could get married.”
This left her staring at him, speechless.
He began to dress his proposal with arguments. He was a humble enough youth who had played a trifling part in life. But his imagination soared at seeing himself a rescuer of distressed maidens. He was a dreamer of dreams. In them he bulked large and filled heroic rôles amply.
June was a practical young person. “What d’ you want to marry me for?” she demanded.
He came to earth. He did not want to marry her. At least he had not wanted to until the moment before. If he had been able to give the reason for his suggestion, it would probably have been that her complete isolation and helplessness appealed to the same conditions in himself and to a certain youthful chivalry.
“We’re good pals, ain’t we?” was the best he could do by way of answer.
“Yes, but you don’t—you don’t—”