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Some old thought was stealing into his brain, perhaps, fresh and warm, like a soft spring air, some hope of the future, in which this child-woman came close to him, and near. It was an idle dream, only would taunt him when it was over, but he opened his arms to it: it was an old friend; it had made him once a purer and better man than he could ever be again.
In a word, the child-woman had already set up an idol in her heart, an idol never, never, in all the changes and chances of this world, to be thrown from its altar. Already she unconsciously identified herself with his successes.
"Yes, a beautiful child-woman the most beautiful in all the world," I said, grasping her hand and holding it a moment till its fluttering ceased. "And I am jealous of every other man who comes near you." I saw that my remark had offended her, so I continued earnestly: "I meant it, Betty; I meant it. I was not jesting."
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