"How does that
excuse you for--"
"It isn't an excuse," she said, gently, and gave him one final look,
wholly desolate. "I haven't said I should never marry."
"What?" Jim gasped.
She inclined her head in a broken sort of acquiescence, very humble,
unfathomably sorrowful.
"I promise nothing," she said, faintly.
"You needn't!" shouted Jim, radiant and exultant. "You needn't! By
George! I know you're square; that's enough for me! You wait and
promise whenever you're ready!"
"Don't forget what I asked," she begged him.
"Talk about the weather? I will! God bless the old weather!" cried
the happy Jim.
CHAPTER IX
Through the open country Bibbs was borne flying between brown fields
and sun-flecked groves of gray trees, to breathe the rushing, clean
air beneath a glorious sky--that sky so despised in the city, and so
maltreated there, that from early October to mid-May it was impossible
for men to remember that blue is the rightful color overhead.
Upon each of Bibbs's cheeks there was a hint of something almost
resembling a pinkishness; not actual color, but undeniably its
phantom. How largely this apparition may have been the work of the
wind upon his face it is difficult to calculate, for beyond a doubt
it was partly the result of a lady's bowing to him upon no more formal
introduction than the circumstance of his having caught her looking
into his window a month before.
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