"Well, bed socks, then," amended Pat. "You've just let yourself be cosseted and pampered and kept in comfort till the You that used to be there has withered away and you've gone blah. My dear, good Johnnie," said Pat vehemently, riding over his attempt at speech and glaring at him above a small, perky nose whose tip had begun to quiver even as it had always done when she lost her temper as a child. "My poor, idiotic, flabby, fat-headed Johnnie, do you seriously expect a girl to want to marry a man who hasn't the common, elementary pluck to propose to her for himself and has to get someone else to do it for him?" "I didn't!" "You did." "I tell you I did not." "You mean you never asked Hugo to sound me out?" "Of course not. Hugo is a meddling, officious idiot, and if I'd got him here now, I'd wring his neck." He scowled up at the balcony. Hugo, who happened to be looking down at the moment, beamed encouragingly and waved a friendly hand as if to assure his cousin that he was with him in spirit. Silence, tempered by the low wailing of the Buddy in charge of the saxophone and the unpleasant howling of his college friends, who had just begun to sing the chorus, fell once more. "This opens up a new line of thought," said Pat at length. "Our Miss Wyvern appears to have got the wires crossed," she looked at him meditatively. "It's funny. Hugo seemed so convinced about the way you felt." John's collar tightened up another half inch, but he managed to get his vocal chords working. "He was quite right about the way I felt." "You mean.... Really?" "Yes." "You mean you're ... fond of me?" "Yes." "But, Johnnie!" "Damn it, are you blind?" cried John, savage from shame and the agony of harrowed feelings, not to mention a collar which appeared to have been made for a man half his size. "Can't you see? Don't you know I've always loved you? Yes, even when you were a kid." "But, Johnnie, Johnnie, Johnnie!" Distress was making Pat's silver voice almost squeaky. "You can't have done. I was a horrible kid. I did nothing but bully you from morning till night." "I liked it." "But how can you want me to marry you? We know each other too well. I've always looked on you as a sort of brother." There are words in the language which are like a knell. Keats considered "forlorn" one of them. John Carroll was of opinion that "brother" was a second. "Oh, I know. I was a fool. I knew you would simply laugh at me." Pat's eyes were misty. The tip of her nose no longer quivered, but now it was her mouth that did so. She reached out across the table and her hand rested on his for a brief instant. "I'm not laughing at you, Johnnie, you--you chump. What would I want to laugh at you for? I'm much nearer crying. I'd do anything in the world rather than hurt you. You must know that. You're the dearest old thing that ever lived. There's no one on earth I'm fonder of." She paused. "But this ... it--it simply isn't on the board."