The Quaint Companions. Merrick Leonard
he said at last.
"'Why'?" She was at a loss.
"Why isn't it possible for you to have other days just as good?"
He was terribly black—she averted her face before she spoke:
"How can I?" she murmured.
"I love you," he said huskily.
She had no words. He got up, and sat beside her. She felt his hand groping for hers under the rug, and trembled. Should she let him take it? … He was holding it. "Do I frighten you?" She shook her head. "I'd give my life for you!" he cried. "Oh, if you can like me a little, only a little, I'll be so good to you! You shall never be sorry—I'll give you everything you want. I love you; I sang to you to-night. No white man could adore you as I do. Can't you—can't you forget the difference? It's cruel to me. No, no, not cruel; you could never be cruel; I know, I know, it's natural you can't understand—you fill my soul, but you can see no deeper than my skin."
"I do like you," her voice made answer.
"Will you be my wife?"
"Yes," she said. She shut her eyes and let him kiss her.
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