looks of her companion, for very good they were, in spite of several defects, were set off by a shabby suit, as carelessly worn as it was inartistically made. His manner, as he walked and talked, was that of a nervous, headstrong man, wrought almost to desperation; while she had the air of a person a good deal bored but determined to be patient A brief silence, however, had at last fallen upon them. Miss Whittaker strolled along quietly, looking at the slow-mounting moon, and the young man gazed on the ground, swinging his stick. Finally, with a heavy blow, he brought it to earth.
"Oh, Gertrude!" he cried, "I despise myself."
"That's very horrid," said Gertrude.
"And, Gertrude, I adore you."
"That's more horrid still," said Gertrude, with her eyes still on the moon. And then, suddenly and somewhat impatiently transferring them to her companion's face—"Richard," she asked, "what do you mean when you say you adore me?"
"Mean? I mean that I love you."
"Then why don't you say what you mean?"
The young man looked at her a moment. "Will you give me leave to say all I mean?"
"Oh dear!" Then, as he remained silent, "I wait for your words," Gertrude added.
Yet he still said nothing, but went striking vehemently at the weeds by the waters edge, like a young fellow who sees that he is in the wrong whatever line he takes.
"Gertrude!" he suddenly exclaimed, "what more do you want than the assurance that I love you?"
