But I do."
"And he won't know anything about our motor ride, alone, the night
that I was kidnapped, either--the literary-theory person," Olivia
tranquilly took away his breath by observing.
St. George looked up at her quickly and, secretly, Olivia thought
that if he had been attractive when he was courageous he was doubly
so with the present adorably abashed look in his eyes.
"When--alone?" St. George asked unconvincingly.
She laughed a little, looking down at him in a reproof that was all
approbation, and to be reproved like that is the divinest praise.
"How did you know?" protested St. George in fine indignation.
"Besides," he explained, "I haven't an idea what you mean."
"I guessed about that ride," she went on, "the night before last,
when you were walking up and down outside my window. I don't know
what made me--and I think it was very forward of me. Do you want to
know something?" she demanded, looking away.
"More than anything," declared St. George. "What?"
"I think--" Olivia said slowly, "that it began--then--just when I
first thought how wonderful that ride would have been.
Pages:
441
442
443
444
445
446
447
448
449
450
451
452
453
454
455
456
457
458
459
460
461
462
463
464
465