laugh.
“I bribed the valet to give us a whole car to ourselves,” she said gaily, “so that you could finish what you had to say.”
He caught his breath and his heart leaped up.
“Do you mean that you are going to forgive me for being so—so—so presumptuous?” he asked.
“Do you mean you didn’t mean what you said?” rippled out Mary Elizabeth’s laughing voice, the kind of a laugh that sometimes covers tears.
“Mean what I said?” said John, in the tone he often used to rebuke a boy whom he was coaching when he was scoutmaster in Florida. “I certainly did mean what I said!” he repeated doggedly. “And I’ll always mean it. But I know I ought not to have flung it out at you that way in public, only I didn’t see that I would ever get another chance if I didn’t do something about it right away.”
“Why, I didn’t mind that,” said Mary Elizabeth gravely. “It was quite original and interesting. It made the walk down the aisle unique. Something to remember!” There was a lilt in her voice that might be suppressed mirth. John eyed her suspiciously through the dark, but she sat there demurely in her corner, and he felt awed before her. Perhaps he had been mistaken and she was one of those modern girls after all.
But no! He remembered the haloed face, the lovely unpainted smile. He would never think that! She might not be for him, but she was what she seemed. She could not be otherwise.
“Yes,” he said, with a tinge of bitterness in his voice, “something for you to laugh about afterward! A country hick come to town to make a fool of himself, putting a girl in an embarrassing position in public!”
“No!” she said sharply. “Don’t say that! You didn’t! I wasn’t embarrassed! I liked it! I really did! I felt … honored!”
And suddenly one of the little white hands stole out of the darkness and crept into his hand with a gentle reassurance, and—it was ungloved!
He folded his hand about hers, marveling at its delicacy, its softness, the way it lay relaxed within his own strong hand. It was then he remembered the ring under the glove.
“But—you are already engaged!” he reminded himself aloud sternly. And then he felt for the ring again. This was the same left hand that had lain upon his arm as they went down the aisle together—galloped down!
Then he sat up sharply, felt the little hand all over, and reached over to the other hand that lay in her lap. It still wore a glove!
He sat back again and drew a breath of relief.
“Where is that ring?” he said.
“Here, in my handbag,” she said, sweetly offering him a tiny scrap made of white beads and gilt. “Did you want it?”
“Was it a joke you were playing?” he accused sternly.
“Oh, no,” she answered lightly. “I told you it wasn’t at all final. I’ve had that ring several days, and I just thought I’d try it out tonight and see if I cared to keep it.”
He hesitated a moment, still holding the little ungloved hand that lay so yielded in his own.
“Then … there is no reason why I may not tell you of my love!”
“Well, I would have to consider that,” said Mary Elizabeth gravely. “It was rather unexpected, you know. But here we are at the hotel. Don’t you think perhaps we’d better get out now?”
John helped her out, thrilling with the thought of touching even the hem of her garment, guarding her flowers, picking up her glove from the cushion, touching her belovedly, his heart pounding away with an embarrassment and trepidation that was quite new to him. John was usually at his ease anywhere, and he had been in the world enough not to feel strange. But he felt like a fool when he thought of what he had been saying, and recalled the keen, bright retaliations.
They hurried through the hall and up the elevator to the big room set aside for the wedding reception, and John blessed the fate that gave him even this silent bit of time more before they had to face the others. He looked down
“I bribed the valet to give us a whole car to ourselves,” she said gaily, “so that you could finish what you had to say.”
He caught his breath and his heart leaped up.
“Do you mean that you are going to forgive me for being so—so—so presumptuous?” he asked.
“Do you mean you didn’t mean what you said?” rippled out Mary Elizabeth’s laughing voice, the kind of a laugh that sometimes covers tears.
“Mean what I said?” said John, in the tone he often used to rebuke a boy whom he was coaching when he was scoutmaster in Florida. “I certainly did mean what I said!” he repeated doggedly. “And I’ll always mean it. But I know I ought not to have flung it out at you that way in public, only I didn’t see that I would ever get another chance if I didn’t do something about it right away.”
“Why, I didn’t mind that,” said Mary Elizabeth gravely. “It was quite original and interesting. It made the walk down the aisle unique. Something to remember!” There was a lilt in her voice that might be suppressed mirth. John eyed her suspiciously through the dark, but she sat there demurely in her corner, and he felt awed before her. Perhaps he had been mistaken and she was one of those modern girls after all.
But no! He remembered the haloed face, the lovely unpainted smile. He would never think that! She might not be for him, but she was what she seemed. She could not be otherwise.
“Yes,” he said, with a tinge of bitterness in his voice, “something for you to laugh about afterward! A country hick come to town to make a fool of himself, putting a girl in an embarrassing position in public!”
“No!” she said sharply. “Don’t say that! You didn’t! I wasn’t embarrassed! I liked it! I really did! I felt … honored!”
And suddenly one of the little white hands stole out of the darkness and crept into his hand with a gentle reassurance, and—it was ungloved!
He folded his hand about hers, marveling at its delicacy, its softness, the way it lay relaxed within his own strong hand. It was then he remembered the ring under the glove.
“But—you are already engaged!” he reminded himself aloud sternly. And then he felt for the ring again. This was the same left hand that had lain upon his arm as they went down the aisle together—galloped down!
Then he sat up sharply, felt the little hand all over, and reached over to the other hand that lay in her lap. It still wore a glove!
He sat back again and drew a breath of relief.
“Where is that ring?” he said.
“Here, in my handbag,” she said, sweetly offering him a tiny scrap made of white beads and gilt. “Did you want it?”
“Was it a joke you were playing?” he accused sternly.
“Oh, no,” she answered lightly. “I told you it wasn’t at all final. I’ve had that ring several days, and I just thought I’d try it out tonight and see if I cared to keep it.”
He hesitated a moment, still holding the little ungloved hand that lay so yielded in his own.
“Then … there is no reason why I may not tell you of my love!”
“Well, I would have to consider that,” said Mary Elizabeth gravely. “It was rather unexpected, you know. But here we are at the hotel. Don’t you think perhaps we’d better get out now?”
John helped her out, thrilling with the thought of touching even the hem of her garment, guarding her flowers, picking up her glove from the cushion, touching her belovedly, his heart pounding away with an embarrassment and trepidation that was quite new to him. John was usually at his ease anywhere, and he had been in the world enough not to feel strange. But he felt like a fool when he thought of what he had been saying, and recalled the keen, bright retaliations.
They hurried through the hall and up the elevator to the big room set aside for the wedding reception, and John blessed the fate that gave him even this silent bit of time more before they had to face the others. He looked down
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