tip of Milly's tongue seemed likely to burn a hole in it.
"Has he—have you—did he?" The demand was indelicate, but it sprang from the depths as Milly measured them. Suddenly she saw tears.
"I am so glad, I am so very glad!"
Mary smiled, but the look in her eyes had the power to startle the affectionate Milly.
"He is the luckiest man I know, but he is such a dear that he deserves to be." It was a peculiarity of Mary's that she didn't like kissing, but Milly in a burst of loyal affection was guilty of a sudden swoop upon her friend.
"Oh, don't," said Mary, in a voice from which all the accustomed gayety was gone.
Milly gazed in consternation.
"You—you have not refused him?"
"No." And then there came a sudden flame. "I'm a selfish, egotistical wretch."
"As long as you have not refused him," said Milly, breathing again. "All the same, I call you a very odd girl."
But Mary was troubled, Milly perplexed.
"You ought to be the happiest creature alive. What's the matter?"
"I'm thinking of his friends."
"If they choose to be stupid, it's their own lookout."
"It mayn't be stupidity," said Mary, giving her handkerchief a bite. "I know nothing about him, except"
"Except?"
"That he's above me socially."
"I wouldn't worry about that if I were you," said Milly robustly. "If they like to be snobs it's their own funeral."
