"It would look rather funny, wouldn't it? Well, then, suppose that we
both get off and push the tandem along in front of us?"

"Oh, no, this is better than that."

"Or I could carry the thing."

Ida burst out laughing. "That would be more absurd still."

"Then we will go quietly, and I will look out for the steering. I won't
talk about it at all if you would rather not. But I really do love you
very much, and you would make me happy if you came to Texas with me, and
I think that perhaps after a time I could make you happy too."

"But your aunt?"

"Oh, she would like it very much. I can understand that your father
might not like to lose you. I'm sure I wouldn't either, if I were he.
But after all, America is not very far off nowadays, and is not so very
wild. We would take a grand piano, and--and--a copy of Browning. And
Denver and his wife would come over to see us. We should be quite a
family party. It would be jolly."

Ida sat listening to the stumbling words and awkward phrases which were
whispered from the back of her, but there was something in Charles
Westmacott's clumsiness of speech which was more moving than the words
of the most eloquent of pleaders. He paused, he stammered, he caught
his breath between the words, and he blurted out in little blunt phrases
all the hopes of his heart. If love had not come to her yet, there was
at least pity and sympathy, which are nearly akin to it. Wonder there