“Come in,” he cried. “Don’t leave me alone here again, please. And tell me — is this the gentleman who took the contract for making Mrs. Norton happy?”
“I–I can’t come in,” she said, blushing. She seemed to wish to avoid him. “Yes, that is Mr. Norton.” She came nearer the easel, and smiled at the late lamented’s tonsorial crown. “I must leave you — just a moment—”
Billy Magee’s heart beat wildly. His breath came fast. He seized her by the hand.
“You’re never going to leave me again,” he cried. “Don’t you know that? I thought you knew. You’re mine. I love you. I love you. It’s all I can say, my dearest. Look at me — look at me, please.”
“It has happened so quickly,” she murmured. “Things can’t be true when they — happen so quickly.”
“A woman’s logic,” said Mr. Magee. “It has happened. My beautiful girl. Look at me.”
And then — she looked. Trembling, flushed, half frightened, half exultant, she lifted her eyes to his.
“My little girl!” he cried down at her.
A moment longer she held off, and then limply she surrendered. And Billy Magee held her close in his arms.
“Take care of me,” she whispered. “I–I love you so.” Her arm went timidly about his shoulders. “Do you want to know my name? It’s Mary—”
Mary what? The answer was seemingly of no importance, for Mr. Magee’s lips were on hers, crushing the word at its birth.
So they stood, amid Mrs. Norton’s gloomy objects of art. And presently she asked:
“How about the book, dear?”
But Mr. Magee had forgot.
“What book?” he asked.
“The novel you went to Baldpate to write Don’t you remember, dearest — no melodrama, no wild chase, no — love?”
“Why—” Mr. Magee paused for a moment in the joy of his discovery. Then he came back to the greater joy in his arms.
“Why, darling,” he explained gently, “this is it.”