just the words, but they were mighty beautiful thoughts and did you credit."
"Don't remind me of it," Jack groaned. "It makes me sick every time I think what an ass I've been."
I allowed that I felt a little nausea myself, but I told him that this time, at least, he'd shown some sense; that Miss Churchill was a mighty pretty girl and rich enough so that her liking him didn't prove anything worse against her than bad judgment; and that the thing for him to do was to quit his foolishness, propose to her, and dance the heel, toe, and a one, two, three with her for the rest of his natural days.
Jack hemmed and hawked a little over this, but finally he came out with it:
"That's the deuce of it," says he. "I'm in a beastly mess—I want to marry her—she's the only girl in the world for me—the only one I've ever really loved, and I've proposed—that is, I want to propose to her,
281
