"You know it as well as I do, Clarence," she said, with a pretty
wrinkling of her own brows, which was her nearest approach to
thoughtfulness. "You know you never really liked her, only you thought
her ways were grander and more proper than mine, and you know you were
always a little bit of a snob and a prig too--dear boy. And Mrs. Peyton
was--bless my soul!--a Benham and a planter's daughter, and I--I was
only a picked-up orphan! That's where Jim is better than you--now sit
still, goosey!--even if I don't like him as much. Oh, I know what you're
always thinking, you're thinking we're both exaggerated and theatrical,
ain't you? But don't you think it's a heap better to be exaggerated and
theatrical about things that are just sentimental and romantic than to
be so awfully possessed and overcome about things that are only real?
There, you needn't stare at me so! It's true. You've had your fill of
grandeur and propriety, and--here you are. And," she added with a little
chuckle, as she tucked up her feet and leaned a little closer to him,
"here's ME."
He did not speak, but his arm quite unconsciously passed round her small
waist.
"You see, Clarence," she went on with equal unconsciousness of the act,
"you ought never to have let me go--never! You ought to have kept me
here--or run away with me.
Pages:
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79