It's all I can say, my dearest. Look at me—look at me, please."
"It has happened so quickly," she murmured. "Things can't be true when they—happen so quickly."
"A woman's logic," said Mr. Magee. "It has happened. My beautiful girl. Look at me."
And then—she looked. Trembling, flushed, half frightened, half exultant, she lifted her eyes to his.
"My little girl!" he cried down at her.
A moment longer she held off, and then limply she surrendered. And Billy Magee held her close in his arms.
"Take care of me," she whispered. "I—I love you so." Her arm went timidly about his shoulders. "Do you want to know my name? It's Mary—"
Mary what? The answer was seemingly of no importance, for Mr. Magee's lips were on hers, crushing the word at its birth.
So they stood, amid Mrs. Norton's gloomy objects of art. And presently she asked:
"How about the book, dear?"
