pered what
had so long hung unuttered on my lips. To-morrow, I said, I shall say
it--at two.

At two in the afternoon I found Gladys Todd in the little vine-covered
veranda in the rear of the house, painting. I am sure that had I seen
her for the first time as she sat there at her easel beautifying a
black plaque with a bunch of tulips, every wave of her hand as she
plied the brush would have struck the divine spark in my heart.
Marguerite at her spinning was not more lovely. The place was ideal
for my purpose. We were above the town, hidden by height from its
sordidness, and we looked far into mountain-tops where white clouds
loitered on the June-day peace. The fresh green of early summer was
about us, and the only sound was the drum of bees in the honeysuckle.
The time, too, was ideal, for it was a whole hour until "three." My
position was ideal, for I placed my chair very close to her and leaned
forward with one hand outstretched to support my appeal. Thus I
stayed, mute, like an actor who has forgotten his lines. The three
words came to my lips, only to halt there.

Fortunately Gladys Todd did not notice my embarrassment, for her eyes
were on her work, and while she painted she was telling me of a game of
tennis which she had played that morning with the three Miss Minnicks.
To the three Miss Minnicks I laid the blame of my silence. Had she
been talking of any one else or of anything else, I said, I could have
uttered the vital fact which hung so reluctantly on my lips, but to
break in rudely in a recitation of fifteen thirties, vantages in and
vantages out, with an announcement that I loved her would be quite
ridiculous. I dropped my hand and stretched back in my chair. Gladys
Todd talked on and painted.

The college clock struck the half-hour, and for me the one clanging
note was a solemn warning. I sat up very straight, I grasped the sides
of the chair, and the words were uttered. But to me it seemed that
some other David Malcolm had spoken them--mere shells of words that
rattled in my ears.

"David!" The voice and tone were like my mother's. Gladys Todd
stopped painting and, turning, looked at me strangely. I could not
have faced that gaze of hers and said another word, but she quickly
averted her eyes, abandoned brush and palette, and sat studying her
clasped hands.

There was nothing now to hold back the flood of passionate avowal.
Perhaps my voice was a little weak, but it grew stronger