was listening to him do it, and that we had better go in.

I wish I had had a kodak and could have snapped the look that came over
his face when I suggested going in. He was perfectly astonished. Also
he was indignant and grieved and the look he bent upon me was truly
burning. As for his voice--Sothern couldn't have surpassed it. After
a while he said he thought I had more sympathy, more understanding of a
love such as his, and if I realized its depth I would not keep him
waiting four years, as four years at college was all nonsense for a
woman; and then he got my hand, anyhow, and I jumped up, for somebody
was coming, and, besides, if we hadn't gone in we'd have been in an
argument right off, with love left out, on the subject of education and
women. I did not want him to think I was not appreciative, however,
and though I went in with Mr. Keane, who had come for his dance, I gave
Whythe a little look that was not unfriendly as I left him. I am
afraid it was not even discouraging, but he seemed so mysterious and
tragic and amazed that I should leave him at such a critical time that
I thought a little look wouldn't hurt. I noticed, as we reached the
door, that he was lighting a cigarette, and I knew his feelings would
soon be soothed. Man has no sorrow that smoking may not cure.

When we went home that night other people were in the automobile (I
always see that that happens, knowing how Mother would feel about it)
and Whythe, of course, had no chance to continue a former conversation,
but his silence said a lot, and when he helped me out of the car he
helped much more than was necessary and held my hands so tight he
nearly broke my little finger; and the look he gave me was a thriller
all right. Every time I've thought of it since my heart has thumped so
I know I must be in love, for all books say that is a reliable symptom.
Being proposed to is awfully interesting, and the reason I like it so