"Daren," she asked wistfully, following her own train of thought, "do you know that most of the girls consider me an outcast? Fanchon rides past me with her head up in the air. Helen Wrapp cuts me. Margie looks to see if her mother is watching when she bows to me. Isn't it strange, Daren, how things turn out? Maybe my old friends are right. But I don't feel that I am what they think I am.... I would do what I did—over and over."
Her eyes darkened under his gaze, and a slow crimson tide stained her white face.
"I understand you, Mel," he said, swiftly. "You must forgive me that I didn't understand at once.... And I think you are infinitely better, finer, purer than these selfsame girls who scorn you."
"Daren! You—understand?" she faltered.
And just as swiftly he told her the revelation that thinking had brought to him.
When he had finished she looked at him for a long while. "Yes, Daren," she finally said, "you understand, and you have made me understand. I always felt"—and her hand went to her heart—"but my mind did not grasp.... Oh, Daren, how I thank you!" and she held her hands out to him.
Lane grasped the outstretched hands, and loosed the leaping thought her words and action created.
"Mel, let me give your boy a father—a name."
No blow could have made her shrink so palpably. It passed—that shame. Her lips parted, and other emotions claimed her.
"Daren—you would—marry me?" she gasped.