knees, I guess I could speak to you. But here, with these duds on—" ruefully indicating his sober black and white dress suit, "well, I feel cramped and clumsy and very much like a darn fool. But, don't you see. . ." and, suddenly, the inner worth, the inner passion of the man, shone in his eyes. His words caught the glamor that shone from youth, from love, from courage, from revival of old hopes, raising of new banners, and soared up to something closely resembling a lyric pitch: "I worship you, dear! I adore you like—like a queen! I love you soul and heart and body! Why, girl, I hear your voice at night, and it haunts me in my dreams. I've smelt the open range in springtime when all the little unknown flowers peep up overnight and make the air sweet and soft—and you, your presence, leaves just such a fragrance behind!" He gave a short laugh. "Talk like a poet, don't I? But—you see, dear—I'm just mad about you, just plumb mad!"
"You must fight against it," said Bertha, with all the priggishness of youth.
"Why should I? Haven't I got a right to love you? Can I help that I love you?" and he went on, reckless of speech, until his passion had spent itself.
Bertha gave a little sigh.
"Tom," she said, "I am fond of you. I like you like a. . ."
"If you say that you like me like a brother I am going to do something reckless! I love you—nor do I love you like a sister. I love you with a real, honest flesh-and-blood love and. . ."
"Tom! She looked up and saw the expression in his eyes. Instinctively she lowered her voice, "I am sorry, Tom, very, very sorry. But. . ." she made a little gesture.
