He had all he could do to restrain himself
from protesting, without regard to his pretenses to himself and to
her. "Do you mean that, Maggie?" he asked with more appeal in his
voice than he was conscious of.
"Never call me that again!" she cried. "It's detestable--so
common!"
He drew back as if she had struck him. "I beg your pardon," he
said with gentle dignity. "I shall not do it again. Maggie was my
mother's name--what she was always called at home."
She turned her eyes toward him with a kind of horror in them. "Oh,
forgive me!" she begged, her clasped hands upon his arm. "I didn't
mean it at all--not at all. It is I that am detestable and common.
I spoke that way because I was irritated about something else."
She laid one hand caressingly against his cheek. "You must always
call me Maggie--when--when "--very softly--"you love me very, very
much. I like you to have a name for me that nobody else has."
He seized her hands. "You DO care for me, don't you?" he cried.
She hesitated. "I don't quite know," said she. Then, less
seriously: "Not at all, I'm sure, when you talk of breaking the
engagement. I WISH you hadn't seen grandmother!"
"I wish so, too," confessed he.
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