"If Brown had forgotten himself, and—and kissed the hem of your dress, what would you have done?"
"I—don't know," was my feeble answer.
"You would have sent him away."
"No—I don't think I could have done that. I—I depended on Brown so much. I used—to wonder how I should ever get on without him."
"Don't get on without him. I'll be your chauffeur all my days, if those are the only terms on which you'll take me back. But are there no other terms? What I want is—"
"What?" I couldn't resist asking when he paused.
"Everything!"
Something in his face, his eyes, his voice—his whole self, I suppose—carried me off my feet into deep water. I just let myself go, I was so frightfully happy. I knew now that I had been in love with Brown for months and had been miserable and restless because he was—only Brown.
I heard myself saying: "I do forgive you."
"And love me—a little?"
"No; not a little."
Then he caught me in his arms, though at any moment some one might have passed the summer-house door and seen us. He didn't think of that, apparently, and neither did I at the time. I thought only of Brown—Brown—Brown. There was nobody in the world but Brown.
I don't think I precisely said in so many words that I would be engaged to him, though he may have taken that for granted in the end; and if I did give a wrong impression, I had no time to correct it,
