"Well, rather!" answered K. Stuyvesant. "Why, you know I'm coming!"  There was almost a resentment in his voice.  "Cecilia," he said, with his first use of her first name, "I haven't any right, but you're so dear, I have to. Have I any chance?"  He leaned very close above her steamer chair. He had gotten quite white.  "Cecilia?" he whispered in question. He reached for her hand, then drew back sharply. 

 "I know you meet lots of fellows much finer than I am," he went on, "and when I'm away from you I don't see how I have the nerve to hope, but I can't help it. Cecilia—dear?" The "dear" was rather muffled. K. Stuyvesant had never used it before and it stuck, even though he wanted so much to say it! 

 She turned her face toward him, and he could say no more. 

 She thought of a brick on the top shelf of a gilt cabinet.  "Nothing could matter to him," she thought; "he is so dear, but I must see..." 

 "When we get home," she whispered, "after two months you may ask me again, if you're sure." 

 "Sure?" he echoed.  "Sure? Oh, heavens!"  Then he looked down at her for quite a few rather breathless moments. 

 After that they talked.  "After two months," repeated Cecilia stubbornly. It made no impression. At last she equivocated a bit and gained her point.  "I hardly know you," she said, looking away from him; "I—I prefer——" 

 "I don't know anything about girls," said K. Stuyvesant, "but I know I've been a dub. I'll try to be agreeable, I'll try to keep this to myself. But,—you will give me a chance?" 

 Cecilia said she would. 

 "Gosh,—I love——" began K. Stuyvesant; then he shook his head. Cecilia didn't mean to, but she slipped her hand in his, under the kind shelter of a blue and green checked blanket. K. Stuyvesant didn't say anything more. He only looked. 

 Mrs. Higgenmeyer came paddling by. 

 "Poppa ain't so well," she called.  "He's sick to his stummick!" 

 "I'm—I'm sorry," answered Cecilia. She tried to pull her hand from K. Stuyvesant's. He refused to let it go. After Mrs. Higgenmeyer had passed, he spoke.  "You're mine!" he said in the manner of all lovers. "You are!"  His voice was gruff. Cecilia was to learn that that meant that she mattered much. 

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