I like it best."
The curt, distinct words were too absolute to admit of any doubt.
Sylvia breathed a short, hard sigh.
"I wonder," she said, "if it would be very wrong to marry a person
you only like."
"Marriage is a risk--in any case," said Burke. "But if you're not
blindly in love, you can at least see where you are going."
"I can't," she said rather piteously.
"You're afraid of me," he said.
"No, not really--not really. It's almost as big a risk for you as
for me. You haven't bothered about--my morals, have you?" Her
faint laugh had in it a sound of tears.
The hands that held her wrists closed with a steady pressure. "I
haven't," said Burke with simplicity.
"Thank you," she said. "You've been very kind to me. Really I am
not afraid of you."
"Sure?" said Burke.
"Only I still wish I were a boy," she said. "You and I could be
just pals then."
"And why not now?" he said.
"Is it possible?" she asked.
"I should say so. Why not?"
She freed her hands suddenly and laid them upon his arms. "If I
marry you, will you treat me just as a pal?"
"I will," said Burke.
She was still trembling a little. "You won't interfere with
my--liberty?"
"Not unless you abuse it," he said.
She laughed again faintly. "I won't do that. I'll be a model of
discretion. You may not think it, but I am--very discreet.
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